HUMAN  WISPS 

[Six  One-act  Plays] 


ANNA  WObFROM 


••     I 

(LIBRARY    | 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORHIA 
SAN  DIEGO    J 


BOO  K.SEU.ERSJ.  STATIONERS 
?6  &  28TREMONT  ST.& 
30COUR  T  SQ..BOSTON. 


HUMAN  WISPS 

SIX  ONE-ACT  PLAYS 


BY 

ANNA  WOLFROM 

Author  of  "Albion  and  Rosamond 

and  The  Living  Voice,"  etc. 


BOSTON 

SHERMAN,  FRENCH  &  COMPANY 
1917 


COPYRIGHT,  1917 
SHERMAN,  FRENCH  6*  COMPANY 


TO 

THE  MEMORY  OF 
MY  MOTHER 

ANN  RANKIN  WOLFROM 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  MARRIAGE  CERTIFICATE 3 

OLD  SHOES 23 

A  WILL-O'-WISP 43 

RIPENING  WHEAT 67 

THE   NEW   RACE 85 

DANNY                                                                           .  109 


THE  MARRIAGE  CERTIFICATE 

A  ONE-ACT  PLAY 


CHARACTERS 

MRS.  ALJNSKY,  a  widow 

LIPA,  her  daughter 

Her  other  children 

MR.   HUTCHENS,  an   adjuster  of  claims 

MR.  WALDSTEIN,  a  merchant 


Withm  the  four  walls  of  a  little  shack  on  the 
south  shore  of  the  muddy  Missouri  lived  a  Jewish 
family,  consisting  of  the  father,  mother  and  seven 
children.  The  one  room  is  cheaply  furnished,  with 
a  pretence  of  some  modern  pieces.  The  bed  is 
placed  to  tlw  center  back  of  the  room,  between  a 
door  and  window,  instead  of  in  its  usual  corner. 
The  dresser  is  at  the  extreme  left,  a  library  table 
is  m  the  center  front,  and  a  few  chairs  scattered 
about  complete  the  furnishings. 

MRS.  ALINSKY  has  just  received  the  body  of  her 
husband,  who  has  been  killed  in  one  of  the  large 
packing  houses.  His  remains  have  been  placed 
on  a  cot  in  a  corner  to  the  right,  in  front  of  a 
window.  The  awe-stricken  wife  has  placed  some 
chairs  before  the  body  and  draped  a  shawl  over 
the  backs  of  them,  so  that  the  children  will  not 
see  the  horror  of  death. 

MRS.  ALINSKY  [sitting  on  a  chair  with  her  head 
buried  in  her  hands].  Oh,  life,  ees  dees  vat  you 
have  give  me  —  have  give  me  ? 

3 


4  i^uman 


LIPA.  [A  girl  of  sixteen,  with  a,  shawl  thrown 
over  her  head,  comes  in]  What  is  it,  mother? 
What  is  it? 

MRS.  ALINSKY.  Vy  has  life  been  joking  with  me 
—  alvays  —  alvays  I  must  suffer  [pounds  her 
breast  as  if  in  great  agony] 

LIPA.  Why  did  the  policeman  send  me  home 
from  work? 

MRS.  ALINSKY  [pointing  to  the  corner].  He 
ees  dere  —  your  poor  fater. 

LIPA  [staring  at  the  corner,  her  jaw  drops,  as 
she  pulls  a  few  strands  of  hair  loose]  .  What  !  is 
father  dead? 

MRS.  AUNSKY.  Did  you  eber  see  your  fater 
sleeping  in  the  daytime? 

LIPA  [too  frightened  to  go  and  see]. 
What's  the  matter?  What  —  how  —  oh,  mother  ! 
[Throws  herself  on  the  ftoor  at  her  mother's  feet] 

MRS.  AUNSKY.  Dey  keel  him  —  the  great,  big 
machines  over  dere.  My  poor  Ivan  [begins  to 


LIPA.  What  are  we  going  to  do;  how  can  we 
live? 

MRS.  ALINSKY.  Live!  [In  anger]  Vy  you 
talk  to  live?  It  takes  money  to  die  in  dees  coun 
try. 


Cfje  Carriage  Certificate         5 

LIPA.  Yes,  mother,  but  we  must  live;  the  chil 
dren  must  go  on  living. 

MRS.  AUNSKY  [with  thoughts  far  away]. 
Live  ?  Live,  my  Gott,  ven  did  I  ever  live ! 

LIPA  [with  a  soothing  voice].  Always,  mother, 
you  and  father. 

MRS.  ALINSKY.  Yes,  my  Lipa,  alvays  —  dat 
ees  so.  I  forget  sometimes.  I  be  happy  in  him, 
in  my  cheeldren.  If  I  make  you  happy  as  a  leetle 
child  —  then  I  live.  I  say  bad  things  sometimes 
ven  I  get  mad,  but,  Lipa,  you  vill  be  a  mother 
some  day  —  den  you  vill  understand  [strokes 
Lipa's  hair  tenderly]. 

LIPA.  The  boss  raised  my  pay  this  morning. 
I'll  get  five  dollars  a  week  now. 

MRS.  ALINSKY.  Dat  ees  so  leetle  to  feed  so 
many  on.  If  ve  could  only  live  without  eating. 
Ach  [drops  her  arms  down  in  hopeless  despair], 
life  ees  hard,  life  ees  hard. 

LIPA.  Don't  say  that,  mother.  [Rising,  she 
goes  over  to  look  at  her  father]  In  Russia  it 
would  Jbe  harder  still ;  what  could  so  many  of  us 
do  there? 

MRS.  ALINSKY.  But  the  neighbors,  dey  come; 
dey  would  make  the  box,  and  the  priest  —  he 
bring  a  long  robe,  the  blessed  robe,  and  the  master 


Oilman 


give  us  a  piece  of  ground.     Here  —  here  ve  have 
noting. 

LIPA  [in  the  center  of  the  room.,  with  hope  in 
her  face].  Here  we  have  so  much  joy  and  free 
dom.  We  have  a  chance  to  live  our  own  lives,  just 
what  we  want  them  to  be,  without  asking  the  land 
lord  what  he  wants  us  to  be. 

MRS.  ALINSKY  [the  little  ones  come  trooping  in, 
all  stair  steps,  four  boys  and  two  girls,  having 
been  sent  home  from,  school].     Here  dey  come  — 
all,  all  of  dem. 

OLDEST  BOY.  Say,  ma,  big  policeman  come  to 
school.  He  say  —  go  home  quick. 

NEXT  YOUNGEST.  Are  they  going  to  send  us 
back  to  Russia,  ma?  I  don't  want  to  go  back 
there. 

MRS.  ALINSKY.  Ach,  my  cheeldren,  vy  you 
come  here  like  dees? 

LITTLE  GIRL.  What  you  think,  ma ;  I  make  big 
face  at  that  policeman  what  won't  let  me  go  to 
school. 

LIPA  [trying  to  assume  her  mother's  burden}. 
Come  with  me,  children.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it. 
Let's  go  into  the  shed.  [Leads  them  through  the 
door  into  a  shed  kitchen] 

MRS.  ALINSKY   [pitifully'].     My  leetle  ones  — 


CJje  Damage  Certificate         7 

my  leetle  ones.  [Goes  up  cautiously  to  the  dead 
body] 

OLDEST  BOY  [breaking  in].  Where  is  he,  where 
is  he,  mother? 

MRS.  ALINSKY.     Fater? 

OLDEST  BOY.     What  have  they  done  with  him? 

MRS.  ALINSKY.  Here  he  ees,  son.  Your  fater 
[grabs  Ms  head  in  her  hands],  your  fater  ees  no 
more. 

OLDEST  BOY.  Lipa  say  the  machines  grind  him 
up.  Grind  him  [shakes  his  little,  stiff  hands  with 
frenzy']  - 

MRS.  ALINSKY.  Yes,  my  boy.  Dere  [points  to 
the  body  behind  the  chairs] 

OLDEST  BOY  [looks  in  bewilderment,  as  if  try 
ing  to  make  out  what  it  all  meows],  I  hope  I  live, 
mother,  to  break  those  machines.  Maybe  now. 
Maybe  I  can  stop  those  big  things  that  kill  like 
guns.  [He  grabs  his  hat  and  rushes  out.  MRS. 
ALINSKY  stands  terrified  as  he  goes  through  the 
door,  leaving  it  open] 

MRS.  ALINSKY.  No,  no,  you  cannot  do  dat,  my 
boy.  Dose  big  machines  dey  make  for  life,  dey 
make  for  death  [laughs  aloud  for  a  moment,  then 
stops  as  if  the  sound  of  her  laughter  calls  some 
thought  hidden  away,  back  in  the  years  gone  by. 


8  l^uman 


A  knock  at  the  door  arouses  her;  she  stands  for  a 
moment  looking] 

MR.  HUTCHENS  [a  young  lawyer,  a  university 
graduate  of  recent  date,  getting  no  response  to 
his  knock,  steps  in].  Oh,  I  thought  no  one  was 
here.  I  am  looking  for  Mrs.  Alinsky. 

MRS.  ALINSKY.     Yes,  I  be  Mrs.  Alinsky. 

MR.  HUTCHENS.  Your  husband  was  killed  in 
the  packing  house  this  morning? 

MRS.  ALINSKY..     Yes,  yes,  dat  was  him. 

MR.  HUTCHENS  [kindly].  I  am  the  adjuster 
of  claims. 

MRS.  ALINSKY.     Oh,  and  vat  ees  dat? 

MR.  HUTCHENS.  The  packing  house  company 
has  sent  me  to  make  a  settlement  [seeing  that  she 
does  not  understand],  with  money  to  pay  his 
funeral  expenses,  and  — 

MRS.  ALINSKY.  You  pay  to  bury  him.  [After 
a  pause]  I  see. 

MR.  HUTCHENS.  Yes,  that  is  it.  We  want  to 
do  the  fair  thing. 

MRS.  ALINSKY  [brightening  up].  Yes,  that  ees 
good  for  'em.  I  have  so  many  leetle  ones,  I  know 
not  vat  to  do  and  ve  no  save  very  much  with  so 
many,  many  cheeldren. 


C&e  Carriage  Certificate         9 

MR.  HUTCHENS.  No,  that  is  just  it.  Now  AVG 
give  you  one  hundred  twenty-five  dollars  for  his 
funeral  expenses,  and  the  same  amount  to  cover 
his  loss. 

MRS.  ALINSKY.     Yes,  I  lose  him. 

MR.  HUTCHENS.  And  for  that  we  are  going 
to  pay  you  one  hundred  twenty-five  dollars. 

MRS.  ALINSKY.  Dat  is  so  good  von  you. 
[Heaves  a  sigh  of  relief;  then  calls  in  a  cheerful 
voice]  Lipa,  Lipa ! 

LIPA  [entering  from  the  kitchen].  Yes, 
mother  ? 

MRS.  ALINSKY  [in  excitement].  Vat  you  tink? 
The  factory,  he  sent  a  man  to  bury  the  fater  and 
vill  pay  for  it  all  —  every  bit  of  it. 

LIPA  [looking  at  the  young  lawyer  m  surprise]. 
Oh,  sir,  that  is  very  kind ;  we  need  it  so  very  much. 

MR.  HUTCHENS.  The  house  always  makes  a 
settlement  [with  importance],  and  of  course  we 
do  it  in  time  so  you  will  not  be  embarrassed  as  to 
meeting  the  funeral  expenses. 

MRS.  ALINSKY  [with  tenderness].  Oh,  God,  He 
be  goot  after  all;  dees  morning  I  almost  cursed 
Him  in  my  heart.  He  take  [pointing  to  the  bed] 
my  poor  Ivan  away.  [Commences  to  cry] 


10 


LIPA  [consoling  her  mother].  Now,  now, 
mother,  you  must  not  do  that  before  this  man. 
He  won't  help  you  if  you  do  not  stop. 

MRS.  ALINSKY  [wiping  her  eyes].  Yes,  yes, 
Lipa?  I  be  goot.  I  stop. 

MR.  HUTCHENS.  Now,  Mrs.  Alinsky,  will  you 
let  me  have  your  marriage  certificate? 

MRS.  ALINSKY.     Vat  is  that? 

MR.  HUTCHENS.  A  piece  of  paper  with  your 
names  — 

MRS.  ALINSKY.  Oh,  you  want  a  piece  of  paper. 
[Turning  to  Lipa]  Lipa,  get  the  man  a  piece  of 
paper. 

MR.  HUTCHENS.  No,  not  that.  The  paper 
you  got  when  you  were  married,  with  your  names, 
the  date  of  your  birth  and  marriage. 

MRS.  ALINSKY  [bewildered].  Names,  birth, 
marriage? 

LIPA.  That  is  called  a  marriage  certificate, 
mother. 

MRS.  ALINSKY  [with  no  concern],  Ve  no  get 
married. 

MR.  HUTCHENS.  You  must  have  something  to 
show  that  you  are  his  lawful  wife. 

MRS.  ALINSKY.  I'm  hees  wife  all  right,  but  I 
no  get  married.  You  see  back  in  Russia  it  takes 


Cfje  Carriage  Certificate        11 

so  much  money  to  take  to  the  priest  that  ve  no 
have  it,  and  ve  have  no  house  to  live  in  so  ve  just 
work  on  together  just  the  same.  Ve  work  on 
big  land  for  a  rich,  rich  man  and  when  Lipa,  she 
come,  ve  say  she  is  the  —  vat  you  call  it?  [looking 
hopelessly  for  the  word] 

LIPA  [coming  to  her  aid].  The  marriage  cer 
tificate. 

MRS.  ALINSKY  [continuing].  Yes,  dat  ees  it. 
Dat  marriage  certificate  [a  short  sound  on  the  a], 
and  den  ven  ve  have  all  dees  leetle  cheeldren  ve 
have  lots  of  marriage  papers. 

MR.  HUTCHENS.  Yes,  Mrs.  Alinsky,  I  do  not 
doubt  your  word,  but  the  house  does  not  pay  com 
pensation  only  to  those  duly  married.  Otherwise, 
in  this  country  there  would  arise  so  much  trouble. 
We  recognize  only  one  marriage  and  that  by  cer 
tificate. 

MRS.  ALINSKY  [infuriated].  Vat  you  say,  you 
say  me  no  married? 

MR.  HUTCHENS.  That  is  so  —  according  to 
the  laws  of  the  church  and  state. 

MRS.  ALINSKY.     But  to  Gott,  be  I  not  married? 

MR.  HUTCHENS.  I  have  no  opinion  to  express 
on  that,  madam.  I  can  only  carry  out  my  in 
structions. 


Ouman 


MRS.  ALINSKY.  Lipa,  vat  ees  dat,  dem  instruc 
tions  ? 

LIPA.  He  can  do  but  what  the  big  men  at  the 
packing  house  tell  him  to  do. 

MRS.  ALINSKY.  Veil,  dey  tell  you  to  come  here, 
pay  me  money  to  bury  my  husband,  ees  dat  not  so? 

MR.  HUTCHENS.  Yes,  if  you  are  his  wife  ;  but 
you  are  not  his  wife. 

MRS.  ALINSKY  [with  emotion].  Not  hees  wife? 
My  Gott,  vat  you  mean?  Ven  I  bear  him  all  dees 
cheeldren,  vash  for  'em,  cook  for  'em,  pick  up 
coal  to  keep  'em  warm  —  you  say  I  am  not  hees 
wife.  Some  vomen,  vat  have  no  cheeldren,  are  dey 
wives  just  because  dey  have  marriage  cer  [forget 
ting  the  word]  paper? 

MR.  HUTCHENS.  According  to  the  laws  of  the 
church  and  state,  madam.  That  is  all  I  can  say. 
I  am  sorry  that  I  cannot  do  anything  at  all  for 
you. 

MRS.  ALINSKY  [throwing  her  arms  about  LIPA]. 
Ach,  my  child,  you  see  now  vat  it  ees  to  live.  Dere 
[pointmg  to  the  couch  of  death],  dey  keel  him, 
he  can  no  help  me,  but  I  must  go  on  and  live  and 
help  you  to  live  just  the  same  —  and  nobody 
cares. 

LIPA   [looking  rather  embarrassed  for  a  mo- 


C&e  Carriage  Certificate        is 

ment,  first  at  MR.  HUTCHENS,  then  at  her 
mother].  Yes,  mother,  we  care  for  you;  we  want 
you  and  we  will  help  you  [hugs  her  mother  more 
closely] 

MR.  HUTCHENS  [coldly].  We  have  hundreds 
of  just  such  cases  as  this  to  handle  every  day. 
We  live  in  a  world  of  chance. 

LIPA  [holding  her  mother,  who  is  still  sobbmg], 
That  is  a  poor  excuse;  chance  will  not  give  back 
to  us  what  your  machines  have  taken  from  us,  or 
change  the  circumstances  of  age  and  conditions  in 
which  my  parents  were  brought  up. 

MR.  HUTCHENS  [avoiding  an  answer].  Good 
day,  ladies.  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  help  you. 
[Goes  out  of  the  door] 

LIPA.  He  is  gone  now,  mother.  We  must  help 
ourselves.  [Goes  over  and  shuts  the  door] 

MRS.  ALINSKY  [standing  dejectedly  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  room.  After  a  pause].  Help  our 
selves,  mit  vat? 

LIPA.  We  must  find  a  way,  mother.  [Hope 
fully]  In  this  wonderful  America  there  are  big 
things  to  do,  and  I  am  going  to  do  them  —  I  must 
do  them.  [A  knock  is  heard  at  the  door] 

MRS.  AX.INSKY.  Ach,  maybe  my  boy ;  dey  bring 
him  home,  too. 


14  l^uman 


LIPA  [peeping  through  a  piece  of  lace  curtain 
hanging  over  the  glass  in  the  door}  .  It's  the  dol- 
lar-a-week  man,  the  furniture  man. 

MRS.  ALJNSKY  [as  if  hit  another  great  blow]. 
I  canno'  see  him.  It  vill  keel  me  to  tell  him  I 
have  no  money.  —  I  must  save  it  for  food. 

LIPA.     It  won't  hurt  to  tell  him  the  truth. 

MRS.  ALINSKY  [hopelessly].  Yes,  the  truth; 
but  the  truth  vill  not  bury  your  fater.  [Loud 
knocking  is  heard  again] 

LIPA.  But  he  has  always  been  kind  to  us, 
mother?  Do  you  remember  how  much  he  threw 
off  that  time  father  was  sick  and  couldn't  work? 

MRS.  ALINSKY.  Yes,  yes,  I  tell  him.  [Goes  to 
the  door  and  opens  it] 

MR.  WALDSTEIN.  [A  Jew,  tall  and  slender, 
bearing  all  tJie  traces  of  the  education  and  refine 
ment  of  his  race,  enters.  His  features  are  regu 
lar,  showing  great  warmth  of  feeling  for  his  fel 
low  man,  yet  one  that  would  not  be  mistaken  for 
a  son  of  his  race]  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Alin- 
sky.  I  thought  that  you  were  not  in  at  first,  but 
then  — 

MRS.  ALINSKY.  Yes,  yes,  Mr.  Waldstein,  I  be 
in,  but  I  have  great  trouble  dees  morning,  and  I 
could  no  come  to  the  door. 


C&e  Carriage  Certificate        15 

MR.  WALDSTEIN.  More  trouble,  what  is  it 
now? 

MRS.  ALINSKY.  My  husband,  he  get  keeled  dees 
morning,  and  we,  me  and  Lipa,  don't  know  vat  to 
do. 

MR.  WALDSTEIN  [with  feeling] .  You  poor  peo 
ple  do  have  more  real  sorrow.  This  is  very  sad 
indeed. 

LIPA.  Father  was  killed  at  the  packing  house 
by  the  machinery,  and  of  course  one  cannot  pre 
vent  accidents. 

MR.  WALDSTEIN.  But  they  should  have  their 
machinery  guarded  so  as  to  prevent  accidents. 
So  much  useless  legislation  going  on  that  never 
results  in  anything  but  disagreement. 

LIPA.  But  father  oiled  the  machinery  —  he 
couldn't  always  go  in  guarded  places. 

MR.  WALDSTEIN.  Yes,  but  they  will  settle  for 
it.  You  will  receive  a  benefit ;  they  will  make 
things  right. 

MRS.  ALINSKY.  Yes,  they  send  a  man  dees 
morning.  He  come  and  he  go  away  again. 

MR.  WALDSTEIN.  Without  making  a  settle 
ment  ? 

LIPA.  Mother  forgot  to  get  a  certificate  when 
she  was  married. 


16 


MRS.  ALINSKY.  You  see  he  wanted  a  marriage 
certificate,  and  I  no  have  one.  You  know,  Mr. 
Waldstein,  in  Russia  ve  be  so  poor  ve  just  work 
for  the  big  landlord  like  hees  own  cheeldren,  Ivan 
and  me.  Our  parents,  some  die  and  some  runned 
away  to  America,  ve  never  hear,  so  Ivan  and  me 
just  live  there  until  ve  get  big.  Ve  have  no 
money  to  take  to  the  priest,  and  when  Lipa,  she 
come,  the  big  landman  he  be  glad  and  give  us  a 
leetle  shack  and  ve  love  one  another  so  much. 

MR.  WALDSTEIN.  And  the  adjuster  refused  to 
give  you  your  compensation  just  because  you 
couldn't  produce  a  marriage  certificate? 

MRS.  ALINSKY.  He  be  sorry  he  say,  but  the 
church  and  state. 

MR.  WALDSTEIN.  Oh,  yes,  the  church  and 
state  !  That  is  just  the  reason  my  father  was 
expelled  from  the  professorship  in  a  university  of 
Germany  and  exiled  —  it  was  for  the  church  and 
state,  too. 

MRS.  ALINSKY.  Lipa,  ven  you  get  big  don't 
you  go  near  the  church  and  state  business. 

MR.  WALDSTEIN  [a  smile  passing  over  his  face, 
iKiih  a  mingled  look  of  mirth  and  sadness].  Ah, 
but,  Lipa,  neither  is  wrong  in  itself.  Like  the 


Cfte  Damage  Certificate        17 

rest  of  us,  the  leaders  haven't  reached  the  height 
of  perfect  understanding  as  yet,  and  cannot  until 
the  understanding  of  the  masses  is  cleared. 

MRS.  ALJNSKY.  Dat  ees  so.  The  man  —  he  no 
understand,  but,  Mr.  Waldstein,  life  vas  never 
been  very  goot  to  us  poor  people. 

MR.  WALDSTEIN.  Now  I  am  going  to  help  you ; 
your  debt  on  your  furniture  is  cancelled. 

MRS.  ALINSKY.  Ah,  Mr.  Waldstein,  you  be 
goot,  be  goot! 

MR.  WALDSTEIN.  We  are  a  great  family,  and 
must  help  one  another. 

LJPA.  I  will  help  too,  Mr.  Waldstein.  I  earn 
five  dollars  a  week  now. 

MRS.  ALINSKY.  Maybe  I  can  get  work,  too. 
You  vill  help  me  to  get  work  so  I  can  feed  my 
leetle  ones,  Mr.  Waldstein? 

MR.  WALDSTEIN.  No,  Mrs.  Alinsky,  I  will  not 
help  you  to  find  work. 

MRS.  ALINSKY.     No?     Vy? 

MR.  WALDSTEIN.  You  will  do  better  if  you 
stay  at  home  and  take  care  of  these  children. 

MRS.  ALINSKY.  I  take  care  of  dem  —  all  right 
[with  a  nod  of  her  head] 

MR.   WALDSTEIN.     Keep   them  off  the  streets, 


is  i^uman 


and  teach  them  that  poverty  in  youth  is  the  great 
est  training  of  human  mettle.  These  hard  knocks 
won't  hurt  them  as  long  as  their  moral  side  is 
cultivated  toward  the  ideal  —  a  good  ideal. 
When  they  get  old  enough,  the  organized  society 
of  Jews  will  find  them  a  place  to  work,  so  do  not 
worry  about  the  future,  Mrs.  Alinsky. 

MRS.  ALINSKY.  But  I  must  find  something  for 
dem  to  eat  —  everyday. 

OLDEST  BOY  [running  in,  breathless].  Mother 
—  mother  —  I  get  a  job  in  the  packing  house.  I 
drive  the  sheep. 

MRS.  ALINSKY.  Vat,  you,  my  leetle  boy  ?  You 
can  no  work  ;  the  big  mans  no  let  you. 

MR.  WALDSTEIN  [drawing  a  check  book  out  of 
his  pocket,  begin*  to  write,  then  pauses  to  look  at 
tlie  fro?/]  .  Young  America,  all  right  ! 

OLDEST  BOY.  I  tell  you  I  will  work.  I 
must  — 

MR.  WALDSTEIN.  If  you  come  to  the  office  of 
our  society,  Mrs.  Alinsky,  once  a  week  we  will 
give  you  an  allowance  to  maintain  you  until  the 
older  ones  are  able  to  support  sufficiently  the  rest 
of  the  family.  Until  then,  my  little  man  — 

MRS.  ALINSKY  [wholly  transformed  and  for 
getting  her  sorrow,  she  holds  the  boy  by  his  head 


C&e  Carriage  Certificate        19 

close  to  her  to  silence  him].  Vat  dey  call  Him, 
dat  one  vat  saves  the  mans? 

LIPA.     You  mean  Christ? 

MRS.  ALINSKY.  Yes,  dat  ees  Him.  Dat  goot 
man  die  out  of  the  hearts  of  the  gentiles  long  ago, 
but  with  the  Jew  — 

MR.  WALDSTEIN  [interrupting  her].  We  find 
good  men  in  every  creed,  my  dear  woman. 

MRS.  ALINSKY.  No,  no  dat  ees  not  so.  Dat 
Christ,  He  jump  right  back  into  the  heart  of  a 
Jew. 

OLDEST  BOY  [pulling  away].  I  am  going  to 
work.  I  —  am  —  going  —  to  —  go  —  to  —  work 
—  I  —  tell  —  you  [he  rushes  out] 

MRS.  ALINSKY.  Lipa,  can  you  no  stop  that 
boy?  [LIPA  follows  him  to  the  door,  wondering} 

MR.  WALDSTEIN  [handing  her  a  check  to  cover 
the  funeral  expenses  of  her  husband] .  Good-bye, 
Mrs.  Alinsky.  [To  Lipa}  Good-bye,  Lipa. 
You  must  help  your  mother  [extending  his 
hand]  ;  life  is  more  serious  than  death,  and  there 
are  six  more  little  ones  that  you  are,  in  a  way, 
responsible  for.  [He  goes  out] 

LIPA.  Good-bye,  Mr.  Waldstein.  [Closes  the 
door  after  him] 

MRS.   ALINSKY   [looking  at  LIPA,   then  at   the 


20  l^uman 


check,  she  pauses  for  a  moment  and  tries  to  read]  . 
"  M  —  R  —  S.  Mrs.  A  —  A  —  linsky."  Lipa, 
what  ees  dees?  Ees  dees  my  marriage  cer  —  tif, 
certif,  certificate? 


CURTAIN 


OLD  SHOES 

A  ONE-ACT  PLAY 


CHARACTERS 

SLENDER  SHOES 
HIGH  HEELS 
CHUBBY  TOE 
DOWN  AT  THE  HEELS 
MISFITS 
SLEEPY  SLIPPERS 


The  scene  is  laid  in  an  old-time  restaurant  in 
the  north  end  of  the  town,  which,  from  its  location, 
bears  proof  itself  that  the  customers  are  not  of 
the  elite.  When  the  proprietor  was  a  boy  —  lie 
having  inherited  the  restaurant  from  his  father  — 
the  north  end  of  the  town  boasted  of  the  smart 
set,  who  were  accustomed  to  promenade  along  the 
edge  of  the  great  clay  banks  that  overlooked  the 
great  Missouri  River.  Here  were  built  fine,  old 
southern  homes,  majestic  in  appearance  as  well  as 
in  situation,  from  which  both  beauty  and  genius 
have  gone  forth  to  make  Washington  take  notice 
and  marvel  at  the  products  of  the  West.  But 
that  was  a  long  time  ago  (only  forty  years) ;  the 
smart  set  has  m<oved  out  south,  and  Italians, 
swarms  of  them,  now  live  in  the  old  colonial  homes, 
and  the  son  of  the  once  famous  restaurant  keeper 
has  changed  the  menu  from  chestnut  stuffed 
turkey  to  "  pork  chops  and." 

The  wearers  of  these  old  shoes  are  the  son$  and 
daughters  of  the  once  smart  set,  but,  owing  to  lack 
of  will  or  gray  matter  that  goes  to  make  up  intel 
ligence,  or  the  want  of  push  to  make  success,  or 

23 


2Uisp0 


tJie  over  abundance  of  taste  for  the  things  that 
make  life  sing  with  pep  once  in  a  icliile,  they  did 
not  move  with  their  brothers  and  sisters  out  south 
or  east,  or  west,  as  the  selected  district  of  your 
town  may  be  called. 

SLEEPY  SLIPPERS  [stretching  himself  as  if  half 
asleep,  he  readies  for  a  bucket  and  mop  from  a 
small  inner  closet~\.  Gee!  this  is  hard  luck,  this 
here  business  of  getting  broke  and  down  on  your 
uppers.  I  guess  that  farm  would  look  pretty 
good  to  me  now,  but  [holding  his  thumbs  under 
his  arms]  I  wouldn't  let  dad  know  it  for  the 
world.  [Goes  over  behind  the  long  counter  to  a 
faucet  and  fills  bucket] 

MISFITS  [a  little  slender,  trick  of  a  girl  enters. 
She  is  just  a  chip  of  the  great  human  wave  in  over 
crowded  cities  that  has,  at  an  early  age,  to  find  a 
place  for  herself  or  starve.  She  is  all  sunshine 
as  she  opens  the  door,  for,  never  having  known 
aught  but  poverty,  this  place  as  dishwasher  seems 
as  a  god-send  to  her].  Good  morning,  Sleepy 
Slippers.  Old  sleepy  head,  now  ain't  you?  It's 
me  that's  been  up  since  the  first  streak  of  daylight. 
Didn't  I  have  all  them  kids  to  get  breakfast  for, 
and  ma  herself  to  pack  off  to  work? 


DID  ^)j)oe0  25 


SLEEPY  SLIPPERS.  It  is  just  good  to  see  you, 
little  one. 

MISFITS.     Don't  you  be  callin'  me  little  one. 

SLEEPY  SLIPPERS.  You  know  you  don't  belong 
in  an  old  joint  like  this,  where  only  the  crumbs 
of  life  come.  Why  don't  you  get  a  job  in  a  nice 
place?  [Seeing  the  sad  look  on  MISFITS*  face] 
Say,  I  didn't  mean  it ;  I'm  glad  you  are  here  — 
you  stay  here,  won't  you,  little  Misfits  ? 

MISFITS.  I  should  say  I  would  stay.  Gettin' 
my  three  meals  a  day,  ain't  I?  And  say,  washin* 
dishes  is  lots  of  fun  [hanging  up  her  little  faded 
hat  and  jacket,  three  sizes  too  large  for  her]  and 
then,  Sleepy  Slippers,  it's  fun  being  here  —  you. 

SLEEPY  SLIPPERS.  I  don't  see  where  you  gets 
that  dope.  I  don't  see  any  fun  washing  floors, 
washing  tables  and  washing  dish  rags  —  oh,  gee, 
them  pigs  of  pa's  would  look  mighty  good  to 
me!  . 

MISFITS.  Say,  Sleepy  Slippers,  was  you 
brought  up  on  a  farm  where  the  flowers  bloom  and 
the  birds  sing  and  — 

SLEEPY  SLIPPERS.  No,  none  of  them  things 
down  yonder;  just  big  fields  of  corn  and  wheat 
that  always  need  a  plowing,  and  whoops  of  cows 
to  milk  every  night  and  morning.  If  wishes  came 


26  I^uman 


true,  all  the  cows  in  the  world  would  have  gone 
dry  long  ago. 

MISFITS.  But  don't  you  say  that  [slipping 
over  to  him,  and  pulling  lier  Hi-fit  ting  blouse  into 
better  shape]  ;  what  would  the  little  folks  do,  and 
the  sick  uns,  and  them  what  can't  eat  meat? 

SLEEPY  SLIPPERS  [grabbing  her  by  the  shoul 
ders].  Little  girl,  you  know  you  got  a  heart  in 
your  waste  paper  basket  that  would  do  honor  to 
a  philanthropy  man  who  preaches  against  the 
lights  and  music  of  the  streets. 

MISFITS  [laughing].  It  hain't  the  lights  and 
the  music  that  makes  a  girl  go  bad  ;  it's  the  things 
she  hain't  got  at  home  what  the  lights  and  the 
music  help  her  to  forget. 

SLEEPY  SLIPPERS.  Beat  it,  Misfits,  here  comes 
a  customer. 

SLENDER  SHOES  [wearing  a  long,  narrow  shoe 
that  does  not  always  fit,  but  tlie  character  of  this 
lost  individual  is  soon  carved  into  the  leather,  out 
lining  his  soul.  As  he  enters,  slamming  the  door, 
he  sees  that  he  is  blocked  by  the  morning  wash-up. 
He  rubs  his  hands  and  calls  to  SLEEPY  SLIPPERS, 
who  is  now  trying  to  blow  fire  into  the  gas  by 
cursing  it].  Give  me  a  cup  of  coffee,  Sleepy. 
Make  it  hot  ;  dope  it  up  a  bit  with  ginger. 


27 


SLEEPY  SLIPPERS.  Go  along;  you  bloats  done 
took  all  the  ginger  what's  to  be  had  in  town. 
Been  buying  it  upon  a  margin,  too. 

SLENDER  SHOES.  Put  pepper  in  it,  then. 
[Seeing  MISFITS,  who  enters  through  a  rear  door, 
carrying  a  stack  of  plates]  Hello,  little  Misfits ! 
What  are  you  doing  here? 

MISFITS  [wearing  a  lace  shoe  of  one  color  and 
length,  and  a  button  shoe  of  another].  Well,  I'm 
not  here  a-sponging  off  of  Sleepy  Slippers  for  my 
breakfast.  I'se  workin'  for  my  board,  I  is. 

SLENDER  SHOES.     Since  when? 

MISFITS.  I'm  earnin'  a  respectable  livin',  I  is. 
[Sets  her  plates  down  on  a  long  shelf  behind  the 
counter]  I  ain't  got  no  lawyer  brother  to  fill  my 
stomach  with  gin  phizes  —  I  got  to  work. 

SLENDER  SHOES.     For  yours? 

MISFITS.     No,  for  what  pa  gets. 

SLENDER  SHOES.  [Though  he  has  been  out  all 
night  he  is  trim  and  neat,  but,  seeing  a  thread  on 
his  coat,  he  brushes  it  off,  and  deftly  crosses  over 
the  wet  ftoor  to  a  table  by  the  wall]  Loan  me  a 
dime,  will  you,  kid? 

MISFITS.  What's  the  joke?  Is  brother  out 
of  town? 

SLENDER       SHOES.     Guess       so.     Something's 


28 


wrong.  I  went  out  there  last  night  to  bum  my 
supper,  and  his  wife  threw  the  dish  water  in  my 
face. 

MISFITS.  She's  a  Kelly  all  right.  What  did 
you  do? 

SLENDER  SHOES.  Me,  humph!  I  just  walked 
around  the  corner  to  another  mansion,  old  Red 
Top  Boots',  and  goes  up  like  a  gentleman  and  calls 
for  him.  But  he  wasn't  there  either. 

MISFITS.  Wasn't  there  [sympathetically]? 
And  then  what? 

SLENDER   SHOES.     Well,  you  know,   Red  Top 

Boots  and  I  were  boys  together,  and  his  wife,  Miss 

Toe  Slipper,  was  a  little  neighbor  girl.     I  loved 

the  little  neighbor  girl,  but  Red  Top  never  knew  it 

—  he  married  her. 

MISFITS.     Wasn't  that  too  bad? 

SLENDER  SHOES.  A  lucky  thing  for  her. 
Well,  when  she  heard  my  voice,  she  came  right  out 
and  invited  me  in,  but  I  was  in  no  condition  to 
make  an  impression,  so  I  hesitated.  My  hesita 
tion  brought  a  piece  of  gold  quickly  to  the  light. 

MISFITS.     Gee,  what  a  find  ! 

SLENDER  SHOES.  Well,  you  don't  know  how 
I  wanted  to  bring  it  down  to  the  boys,  and  give 
them  a  good  old  time. 


DID  §>&oe0  29 


MISFITS    [disappointed].     And   you   didn't? 

SLENDER  SHOES.  No,  it  would  have  been  dif 
ferent  if  it  had  been  Red  Top  Boots,  because  he 
understands,  but  from  her  —  no;  I  just  thanked 
her  all  the  same. 

MISFITS.  You  old  piker.  Catch  me  refusin' 
gold  them  old  rich  dames  is  thro  win'  to  the  birds. 
Now  you  are  a-beggin'  me  for  a  drop  —  go  along 
[stumps  out  angrily] 

DOWN  AT  THE  HEELS  [gazing  m  through  the 
glass  m  the  door  to  ascertain  the  humor  of  the 
keepers  and  his  chances  for  a  breakfast,  he  sees 
SLENDER  SHOES  and  takes  courage.  Crossing 
over  to  the  table,  he  greets  him  like  an  old,  old 
friend.  He  is  fat,  short,  with  his  head  sunk  into 
his  neck,  and  even  though  his  face  shows  a  re 
maining  trace  of  youth,  his  blotchy  skin  denotes 
dissipation].  Well,  if  here  isn't  old  Slender 
Shoes ;  glad  to  meet  you.  Spose  you  are  just 
going  to  work,  eh?  Now  what's  the  name  of  the 
firm  that  employs  you  —  Malt,  Gin  and  Co,  or 
Coke,  Dope  and  Son? 

SLENDER  SHOES.  I  am  in  the  embalming  busi 
ness  just  now.  Have  rediscovered  the  effects  of 
myrrh  of  the  old  Egyptians,  and  I  can  put  a  lining 
in  your  stomach  that  will  resist  carbolic  acid. 


30 


DOWN  AT  THE  HEELS.  What  a  fortune  you 
will  make;  better  than  an  oil  well  in  Oklahoma. 

SLENDER  SHOES.  The  trouble  is  my  victims 
have  no  large  sums  of  money.  Desire  is  cheaper, 
so  they  satisfy  that. 

CHUBBY  TOE  [slips  in  quietly  and  surveys  the 
interior;  seeing  the  two  old  friends,  she  comes 
waddling  over  to  their  table.  Her  foot  is  short 
and  fat,  and  the  pressure  of  the  body  with  the 
thinness  of  the  leather  has  made  her  foot  look 
much  like  a  horse's  hoof.  As  she  sits  down  a  kind 
smile  passes  over  the  countenance  of  SLENDER 
SHOES,  but  one  of  annoyance  over  that  of  DOWN 
AT  THE  HEELS].  You  old  skunk  [addressing 
DOWN  AT  THE  HEELS],  you  don't  have  to  pay  for 
my  breakfast  —  I've  got  a  dollar  of  my  own. 

DOWN  AT  THE  HEELS.  You're  lucky.  Where 
did  you  make  the  sneak?  You  can  pay  for  my 
sinkers,  too. 

CHUBBY  TOE  [taking  out  a  powder  puff  and 
small  glass,  she  dashes  a  bit  of  powder  on  her 
nose].  I  have  paid  for  too  many  of  yours  al 
ready.  I'm  through  doing  charity  work,  and  I 
am  going  to  start  a  bank  account  with  my  own 
surplus. 

MISFITS  [limping  over  to  the  table].     Well,  if 


SOlti  ^!joe0  si 


here  ain't  de  bunch.  Whose  funeral  is  it  today? 
I  never  sees  you  here  dis  hour  in  the  mornin'  'cept- 
in'  when  yous  been  to  a  wake. 

CHUBBY  TOE.  Rotten  business,  Misfits. 
Worse  than  a  funeral,  for  then  we  gets  some  old 
clothing  to  wear  or  sell  [sizing  up  the  cash  in  her 
pocket  fcooAr]  Wouldn't  that  get  your  goat  —  a 
nickel  and  a  penny? 

DOWN  AT  THE  HEELS.  Do  you  mind,  Misfits, 
when  we  waked  old  man  Sullivan  —  all  the  eats 
and  drinks  we  had  then? 

MISFITS.  And  it's  me  that  does  mind,  for  when 
the  good  Lord  takes  him,  he  takes  the  best  friend 
on  the  levee. 

CHUBBY  TOE.     Go  along,  you  old  blubbers  — 
crying  over  old  man  Sullivan.     I'd  like  to  hit  him 
one  in  his   tea-kettle.     Didn't  he   call  me  names 
long  before  I  earned  them? 

MISFITS.     He  was  tryin'  to  reform  you. 

CHUBBY  TOE.  Say,  Misfits,  run  into  the  dive 
next  door  and  get  me  a  whisky  sour.  Tell  Slip 
Shod  I'll  hand  him  a  piece  tonight  as  I  pass  the 
door. 

SLENDER  SHOES.  Misfits,  put  my  order  in  too, 
and  tell  him  I'll  pay  him  my  bill  in  a  day  or  two. 

MISFITS.     When  you  see  your  rich  brother,  I 


32 


'specks.  [AH  turn  around  to  greet  HIGH  HEELS 
as  she  comes  tripping  in,  all  fluffy  in  her  togs  like 
the  last  petals  on  a  June  rose] 

DOWN  AT  THE  HEELS.  Well,  if  here  ain't 
High  Heels.  Been  an  age  since  I  seen  you. 
Thought  you  had  moved  to  the  other  end  of  town 
with  Mrs.  Gout.  There  ain't  many  of  us  old  pals 
left. 

SLENDER  SHOES  [gets  her  a,  chair].  That  is 
so,  old  girl  ;  there  are  not  many  of  us  left. 

HIGH  HEELS  [sitting  doiv*n\.  Not  many  of  us 
left?  To  whom  does  us  refer?  There  are  lots 
of  us  left  when  you  refer  to  them  higher  up,  for 
I  see  them  at  every  turn,  it  seems  to  me,  display 
ing  their  wealth  in  some  form  or  other.  [Putting 
her  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  SLENDER  SHOES] 
But  for  us,  the  ones  that  haven't  made  good  - 
yes,  it  is  only  a  few  of  us  left.  Most  of  us  are  in 
the  potter's  field. 

DOWN  AT  THE  HEELS.  Cut  it  out  for  heaven's 
sake. 

CHUBBY  TOE.  Do  you  think  I  want  to  eat  my 
breakfast  with  such  reminiscences?  I'm  here  be 
cause  I'm  here.  I  like  a  good  friend,  a  good 
drink,  and  a  good  laugh.  What  do  I  care  about 
your  friends  in  Swelldom? 


SLENDER  SHOES.  While  this  argument  is  on  its 
way,  suppose  little  Misfits  trots  in  next  door  to 
see  what  she  can  find. 

MISFITS  [going  on  with  her  work,  setting  the 
chairs  around  the  tables].  I'm  not  helpin'  with 
the  liquor  traffic,  ladies  and  gents.  I've  been 
promised  a  place  at  the  head  of  the  procession 
when  the  women  start  their  campaign  "  Vote  the 
old  town  dry."  [She  dances  a  step  with  a  chair 
as  she  szvings  it  into  place] 

HIGH  HEELS.  Good  God,  Misfits  !  I  pray  that 
I'll  be  dead  then.  The  men  are  all  crazy  now, 
but  when  the  women  get  started  I  want  to  be  softly 
sleeping  in  a  bank  of  clay. 

SLENDER  SHOES.  I  don't  see  where  you  get 
that  dope  on  the  men.  What,  as  a  woman,  have 
you  offered  to  mankind?  [handing  her  a  cup  of 
coffee  from  the  tray  that  SLEEPY  SLIPPERS  has 
just  brought  in] 

HIGH  HEELS.  What  have  I  offered?  What 
did  I  ever  get  to  give?  A  drunken  father,  that 
beat  the  daylights  out  of  my  mother  if  she  re 
fused  to  give  him  the  wash  money,  gave  me  a  dis 
taste  for  men  when  I  was  a  kid. 

CHUBBY  TOE.  I  notice  that  you  have  been  try 
ing  to  get  even  with  them  ever  since. 


l^uman 


HIGH  HEELS  [sarcastically].  Like  some  other 
women  I  know,  my  vanity  fooled  me  for  a  time. 

DOWN  AT  THE  HEELS  [like  a  man].  And  a 
long  time  it's  been,  at  that. 

HIGH  HEELS  [putting  her  youth  to  tlie  front], 
Some  people  never  get  old. 

CHUBBY  TOE.  Not  if  they  change  towns  often 
enough,  but  twenty-five  years  on  one  beat  is  a 
dead  give-away. 

SLENDER  SHOES  [slipping  his  hand  over  and 
patting  the  hand  of  HIGH  HEELS].  Don't  mind 
them,  girl.  We  were  kids  together,  pals  in  pros 
perous  days,  and  old  friends  on  the  path  of  glory. 
Chubby  Toe  has  the  road  before  her  yet  —  it  is 
not  such  a  happy  one. 

HIGH  HEELS.  Her  heart  is  a  heart  of  stone, 
and  she'll  get  all  that  there  is  in  the  game.  But 
when  a  woman's  heart  has  been  burned  and  seared 
and  dried  as  mine,  what  is  there  left  for  a  woman 
to  do  but  the  only  thing  that  will  make  her  for- 
get? 

DOWN  AT  THE  HEELS.  Are  you  referring  to 
your  boy-and-girl  affair  with  Slender  Shoes  ? 

CHUBBY  TOE.     Now  don't  rub  it  in. 

HIGH  HEELS.  Yes,  if  we  had  been  married  when 
our  love  was  at  its  height. 


35 


SLENDER  SHOES.  I  was  in  no  position  to  marry. 
What  does  a  boy  of  eighteen  — 

HIGH  HEEI>S.  You  were  at  your  zenith  as  a 
clog  dancer,  and  the  world  was  at  your  feet. 

SLENDER  SHOES.  If  I  had  got  a  job  then  of 
driving  team  —  or  something  worth  while? 

HIGH  HEELS.  It  was  worth  while  when  you 
were  called  to  dance  before  all  the  crowned  heads 
of  Europe.  Ah,  the  night  you  went  away  —  the 
whole  town  with  a  brass  band  was  there  to  see 
you  off. 

SLENDER  SHOES.  And  you  kissed  me  the  last 
—  even  after  my  mother. 

HIGH  HEELS  [m  an  appealing  voice].  Ah,  you 
do  remember?  I  have  never  forgotten  the  thrill. 
In  all  these  years  it  has  been  the  one  memory  that 
stands  out  above  all  the  others. 

CHUBBY  TOE.  Even  if  you  have  long  ceased  to 
be  thrilled. 

HIGH  HEELS.  Shut  up,  Chubby  Toe ;  I  am  seri 
ous. 

DOWN  AT  THE  HEELS.  I  had  a  thrill  once,  but 
the  winds  took  it  — 

CHUBBY  TOE.  What  does  a  man  know  about  a 
thrill? 

HIGH  HEELS.     You  can  laugh  all  you  want  to. 


36  J^uman 


We  women  who  are  nobody,  —  and  we  women  who 
are  —  are  one  and  the  same.  We  want  the  love  in 
a  home,  of  little  children,  of  a  husband  — 

CHUBBY  TOE.  But  for  the  prank  of  a  foolish 
day? 

SLENDER  SHOES.     You  pay,  you  pay. 

DOWN  AT  THE  HEELS.  Better  than  the  harder 
road  through  life. 

CHUBBY  TOE.  The  next  time  I  falls  into  a 
crowd  for  my  eats,  I  hope  it  won't  be  a  dead  one. 
I  want  a  real,  live  song  to  cheer  me  up  ;  I  got 
enough  of  them  thoughts  right  down  here.  [Slaps 
her  hand  over  her  }ieart\ 

DOWN  AT  THE  HEELS.  Gee!  and  not  a  sou  in 
in  the  crowd  to  buy  a  drink  to  drown  them 
thoughts  down  there,  either. 

SLENDER  SHOES  [rising  and  leaning  on  the  back 
of  the  chair  of  HIGH  HEELS].  I  must  be  on  my 
way,  friends. 

HIGH  HEELS.     And  where? 

SLENDER  SHOES.  Think  I'll  go  out  to  my 
brother's,  and  make  one  last  appeal  for  mother's 
clock. 

DOWN  AT  THE  HEELS.  Why  this  sentimental 
journey  so  early  in  the  morning? 

HIGH   HEELS.     You  see  what  a  man  I  could 


37 


have  made  of  him  with  all  the  history  of  years 
behind  him? 

CHUBBY  TOE.  That  wouldn't  bear  print 
ing. 

HIGH  HEELS  [continuing].  You  see  there  is 
left  a  trace  of  feeling  —  his  mother's  clock. 
[Begins  to  sob] 

SLENDER  SHOES.  It  is  the  only  thing  that's 
left. 

HIGH  HEELS.  Are  you  going  to  give  it  to  me 
as  a  peace  offering? 

CHUBBY  TOE.     'Fess  up  now,  Slender  Shoes. 

SLENDEII  SHOES.  If  you  wait  here  long  enough, 
I'll  bring  you  the  result. 

DOWN  AT  THE  HEELS.     What,  a  good  jag? 

SLENDER  SHOES.  No,  the  last  remnant  of  a 
heart  string. 

HIGH  HEELS.     How? 

SLENDER  SHOES.  I'll  have  nothing  else  to 
pawn. 

HIGH  HEELS.  Don't  jest  [rising].  Do  you 
want  the  spirit  of  your  mother  to  haunt  you? 

SLENDER  SHOES.  Well,  I'll  drown  the  haunt 
good  and  plenty  —  if  I  have  enough. 

DOWN  AT  THE  HEELS.  Don't  I  come  in  on 
that? 


l^uman 


SLENDER  SHOES.  Hope  we  don't  have  to  share 
it  with  many  more. 

HIGH  HEELS.  No,  Slender  Shoes,  if  you  and 
I  had  only  married  when  our  love  was  bursting 
the  heart  strings,  mother's  clock  would  have  been 
sitting  on  our  mantel. 

CHUBBY  TOE  [looking  at  the  far-away  stare  in 
the  eyes  of  SLENDER  SHOES].  More  mush. 

SLENDER  SHOES.  The  torch  bearer  is  off,  then. 
[Steps  toward  the  door] 

DOWN  AT  THE  HEELS.  Bring  us  good  tidings 
then,  brother.  [SLENDER  SHOES  nods;  goes  out] 

CHUBBY   TOE.      He  was   a  fine   old  brother  — 
twenty  years  ago. 

HIGH  HEELS  [rising].  Twenty  years  ago! 
The  value  of  the  human  pawn  shop  goes  down  with 
age,  but  wine  —  What  are  we  going  to  talk 
about  tomorrow  morning,  comrades? 

CHUBBY  TOE.  Why  High  Heels  is  always 
late.  [They  go  out] 

SLEEPY  SLIPPERS.  [MISFITS  has  just  come  in 
with  another  stack  of  plates]  I  suppose  that  is 
to  be  charged  to  Slender  Shoes,  too. 

MISFITS.  Sure,  his  rich  brother  don't  care. 
When  the  boss  sends  the  bill  in,  a  check  comes  by 
return  mail,  and  do  you  know  cause  why? 


39 


SLEEPY  SLIPPERS.  Cannot  guess,  for  many 
brothers  ain't  like  that. 

MISFITS  [dashing  out  m  front].  Cause  when 
Slender  Shoes'  mother  was  a  dyin' — he's  her 
baby  boy  —  she  made  the  lawyer  boy  promise  to 
share  his  last  penny  with  his  brother. 

SLEEPY  SLIPPERS.  I  hain't  got  no  chicken 
heart  in  me  like  that. 

MISFITS.  You  ain't?  You  hain't  got  no  little 
brothers  and  sisters,  then. 

SLEEPY  SLIPPERS.  Cut  it  out,  cut  it  out. 
Let's  quit  the  job  and  take  to  the  farm  while  the 
quitting's  good. 

MISFITS.     What  would  I  do  there? 

SLEEPY  SLIPPERS.  Don't  you  know?  Don't 
you  —  you'd  be  my  wife. 

MISFITS.     Your  wife?     Gee!  that  sounds  good. 

SLEEPY  SLIPPERS.  Sure  we'll  go  back  to  dad 
—  to  the  flowers  and  the  birds. 

MISFITS.  To  the  miles  and  miles  of  corn  stalks 
what  needs  a-plowin'? 

SLEEPY  SLIPPERS.  That  ain't  no  joke.  But 
you  would  be  there,  Misfits,  and  life  would  be  dif 
ferent  then. 

MISFITS  [shaking  her  head].  Life  would  be 
different  then. 


40 


SLEEPY  SLIPPERS  [taking  her  in  his  arms]. 
Say  it,  little  one  ;  say  you  will  come. 

MISFITS.  It  is  like  a  stab  in  my  heart  to  say 
it  —  but  I  can't.  Ma's  got  eight  little  ones,  with 
me  as  the  oldest,  and  I  couldn't  let  them  starve. 
I've  got  to  help  ma. 

SLEEPY  SLIPPERS.  You  are  the  first  gal  I  ever 
asked. 

MISFITS.  I  likes  the  compliment.  To  have  a 
man  like  you  lovin'  me,  makes  me  glad  right  here 
[strikes  her  side],  but  — 

SLEEPY  SLIPPERS.     Ain't  you  going  to  say  yes  ? 

MISFITS  [silent  for  a  moment].  It  hurts,  it 
hurts. 

SLEEPY  SUPPERS  [hearing  the  boss  calling]. 
Say  yes,  and  I'll  tell  him  to  take  the  fiery  trail. 
You  will,  if  you  love  me. 

MISFITS.  Yes,  my  boy,  but  when  a  feller  has 
got  eight  children  to  feed  he  hain't  got  no  right 
to  be  talkin'  of  love. 

SLEEPY  SLIPPERS  [hears  the  boss  calling 
again].  And  you  turns  me  down?  [Looks  at  her 
for  a  moment  rather  dejectedly,  then  stalks  out] 

MISFITS  [alone,  thinking].  When  they  are  all 
big  and  got  homes  of  their  own  —  where  will  my 

home  be? 

CURTAIN 


A  WILL-O'-WISP 

A  ONE-ACT  PLAY 


CHARACTERS 

STRANGER,  a  father  in  search  of  his  son. 

PATRICK  BRADY,  a  farmer 

MRS.  BRADY,  his  wife 

MARY  BRADY,  their  daughter 

MIKE  HENNESY,  a  farm-hand 

SAM       ] 

^sons 
PATSY    J 


Scene:  The  kitchen  of  an  old  farm  house  in 
eastern  New  York,  with  the  heavy  beams  of  the 
ceiling  crossing  and  crisscrossing.  To  the  right 
is  situated  a  fireplace,  where  a  spreading  fame 
sends  forth  a  cheerful  flicker  of  light  upon  the 
old  brass  and  copper  utensils  hanging  about. 
At  the  back  are  some  low  Dutch  windows,  before 
which  stand  the  kitchen  table  and  an  old-fashioned 
cupboard.  To  the  left  of  the  room  is  a  dining 
table,  with  several  old  hand-made  chairs,  sitting 
against  the  wall.  The  supper  is  being  cooked  in 
a  pot,  hanging  on  a  crane  in  the  fireplace.  A 
terrific  storm  is  raging  without.  MARY  BRADY, 
who  was  to  have  been  married  today,  is  getting 
supper  for  the  family  and  her  future  husband. 
All  is  quiet  for  the  moment,  as  the  curt  am  goes 
up;  then  MARY  bursts  out  in  song,  as  she  goes 
about  her  work. 

MIKE  HENNESY  [enters  with  a  pail  of  milk~\. 
Sure  and  it's  raining  a  bit  this  night,  darling 
Mary. 

MARY.     I  know  it  is  that,  Mike.     Good  it  is 

we  didn't  walk  over  to  Father  Malone's  to  get 

43 


44  l^uman 


married  this  morning.  It's  no  luck  to  the  bride 
if  it  rains  on  her. 

MIKE.  Luck  or  no  luck,  rain  or  no  rain,  and 
divil  a  bit  I  care  just  so  you  are  mine.  [Stoops 
over  to  kiss  her,  as  he  spitts  the  milk  on  her  dress] 

MARY  {with  anger].  See  now,  what  you  be  a 
doing?  My  good  frock  at  that.  [Taking  tlie 
bucket,  she  sets  it  on  the  table  and  arranges  the 
pans.  While  MIKE  is  talking  she  pours  the  milk 
into  them] 

MIKE.  I'll  be  buying  you  a  fine  dress,  Mary, 
when  I  go  to  Hudson  next  week.  What  kind  will 
you  have,  a  rose-colored  one  or  a  black  —  like 
mother  wears  ? 

MARY.  Faith  and  I  have  never  seen  your 
mother  —  what  would  I  be  knowing  what  she 
wears  ? 

MIKE  [with  all  good  nature].  Ah,  she  wears  a 
frill  about  her  neck,  Mary.  She  is  just  like  a 
little  angel,  my  little  mother.  I  wish  you  could 
see  her  as  I  do  now.  [His  face  softens]  Won't 
she  be  happy  when  she  gets  my  letter  telling  her 
about  me  marrying  my  master's  daughter?  She 
will  be  proud  of  her  lad,  she  will. 

MARY  [turns  preparatory  to  handing  him  the 


a  rnni»fly«gaii0p  45 


pail].  And  it  is  proud  your  Mary  will  be,  too, 
Mike.  You  are  the  finest  lad  in  the  land  here 
about. 

MIKE  [grabbing  the  pail  with  one  hand,  he 
squeezes  her  with,  his  right  arm  and  hurries  out]. 
It  does  me  good  to  hear  you  say  that,  Love. 

MARY  [to  herself].  It  does  me  good  to  be  say 
ing  it  myself.  [Turns]  He  is  a  fine  lad  —  he  is 
that. 

MRS.  BRADY.  [A  woman,  stout  m  figure,  turn 
ing  grey  about  the  temples,  with-  a  florid  face,  and 
seeming  to  have  all  the  character  and  energy  of 
the  family,  enters]  We  will  have  supper  in  the 
kitchen  tonight,  Mary.  It  is  cold  and  damp  in 
the  living  room  and  the  wood  is  too  wet  to  burn 
in  the  stove. 

MARY.     The  rain  has  spoiled  everything  today. 

MRS.  BRADY.  You  are  not  disappointed  a  bit, 
are  you,  that  father  couldn't  spare  the  horses  to 
take  you  to  your  wedding? 

MARY  [stirring  the  contents  m  the  pot  in  the 
fireplace].  No,  I  am  used  to  waiting.  I  'spose  if 
one  of  us  should  die,  the  funeral  would  have  to  be 
put  off  a  day  if  it  was  the  day  dad  had  to  take 
the  milk  to  the  boat. 


46 


MRS.  BRADY.  It  would  be  a  great  loss  to  have 
all  that  milk  sour  on  us.  [Begins  to  set  the 
table] 

MARY.  A  day  more  or  less  matters  little  to 
you  when  you  are  dead,  I  reckon. 

Mns.  BRADY.  When  a  man  is  in  business,  busi 
ness  must  be  first. 

MARY.  It's  poor  business  when  you  can't  take 
time  to  get  married  on. 

MR.  BRADY  [enters  before  the  last  sentence  is 
finished].  The  rain  would  never  have  stopped 
me  from  getting  married  on  my  wedding  day. 
[Shakes  a  long  finger  at  the  mother,  while  his  tall 
muscular  figure  shows  m  its  pose  the  lack  of  de 
cision  and  love  of  work]  Change  your  name 
three  times,  my  girl,  and  you  will  never  need  enter 
the  kingdom  of  heaven  —  you  can  go  to  Ireland, 
my  own  country. 

MRS.  BRADY.  The  grog  has  gone  to  your  head, 
Patrick.  Why  didn't  you  stay  in  bed  when  I  put 
you  there? 

MR.  BRADY.  You  'ave  put  me  there  too  often 
already,  mother.  Why  should  a  man  get  put  to 
bed  when  he  has  just  taken  a  drop  too  much? 

MARY.  Husbands  must  be  learnt,  father  [with 
a  short  accent  on  the  a]. 


47 


MR.  BRADY.  Your  mother  has  been  learning 
me  all  me  life,  daughter  [hanging  up  Ms  coat  and 
lantern  by  the  fireplace].  I'd  like  to  be  a  lad  with 
the  other  lads  down  by  the  wharf.  It  does  a  man 
good  to  get  where  he  can  hear  a  good  tale  once  in 
a  while,  just  to  get  a  whiff  of  the  salt  air  once 
more.  [His  eyes  snapping]  Then  to  see  a  good 
fight,  eh? 

MRS.  BRADY.  Pat,  will  you  never  get  away 
from  the  drunks?  If  it  wa'n't  for  me  we'd  be  in 
the  poorhouse.  It's  me  that  keeps  soul  and  body 
together  here.  I'd  be  well  fed  if  you  put  as  much 
in  my  stomach  as  you  put  in  the  till  of  the  tavern. 

MR.  BRADY.  Who's  better  fed  than  you,  I'd 
like  to  know  —  not  even  the  pigs. 

MARY.  [A  great  gust  of  wind  blows  the  door 
open]  I  would  hate  to  be  a  lone  traveler  on  the 
road  tonight. 

MRS.  BRADY.  Let's  pray  that  there  is  none  to 
meet  such  a  night  in  his  walks. 

MR.  BRADY  [while  he  is  trying  to  shut  the  door, 
it  is  thrust  open  again,  as  his  two  sons  enter]. 
I'm  mighty  glad  you  are  home,  lads.  You  are 
soaked  through.  Didn't  you  get  a  lift  from  town 
at  all? 

PATSY  [looking  at  SAM,  who  is  as  drenched  as 


48  pitman 


he].  Who  would  give  us  a  lift,  when  there  is  no 
one  out  this  cursed  night  but  fools? 

SAM.  We  be  the  fools  then.  I  told  Patsy  to 
stay  in  town  tonight,  but  he  didn't  know  who 
would  be  doing  the  milking,  thinking  sister  might 
be  gone  on  a  honeymoon. 

MRS.  BRADY.  And  when  did  you  ever  do  so 
much  thinking  about  the  milking  before? 

MARY.  Where's  the  chance  to  get  away  on  a 
honeymoon  here,  I'd  like  to  know?  Mother 
couldn't  get  along  without  someone  to  help  her. 
Who  is  helping  Mike  milk  eighty  cows  out  there? 

MR.  BRADY.  I  never  was  fond  of  running  a 
milk  dairy,  and  above  all  when  it  is  raining  cats 
and  dogs  on  the  roof. 

PATSY.  What  would  you  rather  be  running 
than  a  dairy  ?  [hanging  his  coat  behind  the  hearth 
to  dry~\ 

SAM.     A  sausage  factory  or  a  broom  works? 

MR.  BRADY  [ignoring  their  remarks].  Who 
did  you  see  at  the  river?  Was  Mike  Casey  there 
to  have  a  game  with  me,  as  usual? 

PATSY.  No,  he  was  there  to  get  his  fill  of  grog 
—  as  usual. 

MRS.  BRADY.     It's  the  likes  of  you  two  that  I 


a  mnwffli  49 


have  had  to  bother  me  all  my  life.  Sit  down  to 
your  supper  and  eat  your  fill. 

MARY  [carrying  the  steaming  vegetables  to  the 
table  with  the  aid  of  her  apron}  .  It's  hot  —  sure 
I'll  drop  them. 

MRS.  BRADY  [watches  MARY  as  she  carries  the 
things  to  the  table,  then  ceasing  to  stare,  ex 
claims].  My  God,  Mary! 

MARY  '[unconscious  of  her  mother's  discovery, 
still  holds  her  apron  in  her  hands  after  finishing], 
What  have  I  done  now?  [MRS.  BRADY  runs  out 
of  the  room]  Mother  has  gone  wrong,  too. 

MR.  BRADY.     Where's  Mike? 

PATSY.     Isn't  he  on  a  holiday? 

SAM.  Father  didn't  give  him  one  —  not  even 
to  get  married  on. 

MARY  [standmg  quietly  by  the  kitchen  table]. 
We  couldn't  walk  five  miles  in  this  weather  to  get 
married.  We  didn't  want  to  miss  the  chance  to 
put  on  holiday  dress. 

PATSY.  Dad  never  expects  a  hired  man  to  put 
on  dress-up  clothes. 

MR.  BRADY.  When  do  I  ever  get  a  chance  to 
put  on  dress-up  clothes? 

SAM.     You  have  had  a  bit  of  a  holiday  today. 


50  i^uman 


You  were  three  hours  late  getting  home  with  the 
milk  wagon,  and  mother  here  a-swearing  because 
she  would  be  late  washing  the  milk  bottles.  Then 
we  had  to  go  after  you. 

MIKE  [enters  hastily,  leading  a  stranger}. 
Here,  Mr.  Brady,  is  a  lost  man.  He  is  asking  to 
sleep  in  the  barn. 

MB.  BRADY.  Sit  you  down,  sir.  Here  by  our 
fireside  you  are  welcome.  There's  plenty  of  room 
in  the  house.  Make  a  place  for  him  at  the  table, 
Mary. 

MABY  [coming  with-  service,  smiles  kindly  at  the 
old  man}.  It's  welcome  you  are  here,  sir. 
[While  MIKE  is  taking  his  place  at  the  table} 
There  is  a  bad  storm  out  tonight. 

STRANGER  [taking  his  seat  at  the  table}.  I 
didn't  think  I'd  have  such  good  luck  tonight. 
For  an  hour  I  have  looked  far  and  near  for  shel 
ter,  and  I  began  to  fear  the  people  in  these  parts 
lived  up  in  the  trees. 

PATSY.  If  it  is  luck  it  is  you  are  looking  for, 
you  better  not  be  abiding  in  this  house. 

MR.  BRADY.  And  why  not?  If  it's  anything 
like  lightning,  it's  apt  to  strike  us  any  time. 
Have  you  come  afar,  stranger? 

STBANGEB.     Yes,  your  lordship,  I  came  up  this 


a  wni*w*mi*v  si 


morning  on  the  boat  from  beyond  in  the  Catskills. 

MR.  BRADY.  Are  you  looking  for  work,  I  would 
like  to  ask? 

STRANGER.  No,  I  am  looking  for  a  good  cow. 
I  heard  up  hereabouts  a  man  could  buy  them 
cheap. 

SAM.  Yes,  father  has  a  lot  of  worn-out  devils 
he'd  like  to  sell  you.  [MIKE  is  eyeing  MARY  all 
the  while  as  she  sits  by  the  fireside,  knitting] 

STRANGER.  I  have  a  lot  of  the  likes  of  them  at 
home. 

MR.  BRADY.  Give  us  some  more  tea,  Mary. 
Wait  on  Mike  there  ;  he  is  starving  to  death. 

MARY  [coming  over  with  the  tea-pot,  she  fills 
the  cups  as  she  circles  the  table].  You  know  he 
will  ask  for  it  when  it  is  not  where  it  is  to  be  seen, 
can't  you,  Mike? 

MIKE.  Sure  I  can,  Mary,  but  I'd  rather  be 
seeing  you  any  day. 

PATSY.  It's  a  good  thing  someone  is  glad  to 
see  you,  hey,  sis  ?  If  our  scullery-maid  ever  leaves 
the  family,  heavens  knows  what  will  become  of  us. 

MARY.  I  don't  think  I'll  be  leaving  you  soon, 
brother  —  mother  needs  me. 

MR.  BRADY.  You'll  be  leaving  her  awhile  with 
us  yet,  won't  you,  Mike? 


52  $)uman 


MIKE.  And  we  haven't  talked  about  the  doings 
of  the  morrow  as  yet,  have  we,  Mary  girl? 

STRANGER.  It  does  no  good  anyway.  Some 
times  it  is  better  not  to  decide  yourself  —  older 
heads  know  better. 

SAM.      Sure  they  do,  even  if  they  are  boneheads. 

MR.  BRADY  [moving  away  from,  the  table], 
Take  a  seat  by  the  fire,  stranger.  Fill  your  pipe 
and  make  yourself  to  home  while  me  and  the  boys 
goes  out  to  finish  up.  [SAM  and  PATSY  go  out] 

MIKE  [going  over  to  MARY].  I  won't  be  long, 
Mary.  You'll  be  looking  for  me,  won't  you,  gal? 
[She  gives  him  a  sly  glance,  as  she  starts  to  clear 
off  the  table] 

MR.  BRADY  [who  has  been  lighting  his  lantern}. 
This  is  a  fine  shower  for  the  grass  and  growing 
things.  The  earth  was  good  and  thirsty.  [To 
MIKE]  Come,  let's  be  off,  boy. 

MIKE.  The  ground  will  be  too  soaked  to  be 
a-plowing  in  the  morning.  I  can  help  you  with 
your  washing,  Mary  [closing  the  door  behind  him] 

MARY  [clearing  the  dining  table,  she  carries  the 
things  over  to  the  kitchen  table.  Then  she  looks 
m  a  bewildering  manner  at  the  stranger,  not  know 
ing  what  to  say].  You  have  walked  a  long  way 
today,  man,  have  you  not? 


a  miii''<3F>mi$  53 


STRANGER.     Yes,  miss,  it  is  a  long  way  to  come. 

MARY.  You  said  you  came  part  way  on  the 
river. 

STRANGER.  Yes,  but  a  river  is  no  place  to  find 
a  cow,  unless  a  dead  one. 

MARY.  And  you  don't  want  a  dead  one,  I'm 
sure. 

STRANGER.  You  do  not  know  where  a  body 
could  find  a  cow  hereabout,  cheap  like? 

MARY.  No,  sir,  because  my  father  would  have 
bought  it  up  if  it  was  for  sale  cheap. 

STRANGER.  They  are  precious  animals  these 
days.  Worth  more  than  our  wives,  and  I  am  sure 
they  have  better  care. 

MARY  [thinking  he  is  referring  to  her].  It's 
not  such  hard  work  to  do,  anyway.  [Her  youth 
and  health  beam  forth  from  the  twist  of  her  shoul 
ders'] 

STRANGER*  And  you  are  married,  are  you, 
Miss  ? 

MARY.  I  was  to  be  today,  sir,  but  it  was  too 
far  to  walk  in  the  storm. 

STRANGER  [turning  around  in  astonishment], 
And  so  this  was  to  be  your  wedding  day  ? 

MARY.     Yes,  your  honor. 

STRANGER.     Do  me  no  honor,   I'm  just  poor 


54 


folk.  But  why  delay  your  singing  and  the  wed 
ding  supper? 

MARY  [casting  her  eyes  to  the  ground]. 
Father  is  too  busy  in  the  dairy  to  spare  the  horses, 
and  mother  is  too  busy  in  the  kitchen  to  spare  me. 

STRANGER.  I  see.  You  are  bound  just  like  the 
slaves.  In  this  land  of  milk  and  honey,  man  is  no 
better  than  a  dog.  In  Ireland  you  are  worth 
enough  to  stop  a  day  for,  anyway. 

MARY.  Yes,  I  know,  but  the  cows  have  to  be 
milked  ;  the  milk  has  to  be  shipped  to  New  York, 
or  else  the  babies  would  be  without  their  bottles. 
I'd  rather  work  than  have  a  baby  starve. 

STRANGER.  So  would  I.  It  is  nice  of  you  to 
think  of  it  in  that  way.  I'm  sorry,  Miss,  I  said 
anything.  Forgive  me.  [Shakes  his  hand  in  a 
forgiving  manner] 

MARY.     Yes,  stranger,  you  are  quite  forgiven. 

STRANGER.  I  can  smell  the  honeysuckle  now. 
It  makes  the  home  a  place  worth  going  back  to, 
and  I  feel  sorry  for  the  man  that  has  no  flower  in 
his  yard,  as  I  do  for  the  babies  that  have  no  milk. 

MARY.  So  you  have  honeysuckles  a-growing  in 
your  garden.  But  there  are  men  who  have  flowers 
growing  in  their  hearts  —  they  need  no  yard  to 
grow  them  in. 


55 


MRS.  BRADY  [enters  abruptly  and  stares  first  at 
the  STRANGER,  then  at  MARY].  It's  a  fine  pair 
you  are.  [To  the  STRANGER]  What  are  you 
doing  here? 

STRANGER  [MARY  turns  to  hide  her  embarrass 
ment  in  her  dishes].  The  gintleman  told  me  to 
abide  here  until  he  came  back. 

MRS.  BRADY.  You  are  a  fine  couple  to  stand  at 
the  head  of  a  corpse.  You  come  here  a-making 
love  to  my  gal,  the  likes  of  you. 

MARY.     Mother,  this  is  a  stranger. 

MRS.  BRADY.  I  know  you,  Miss,  now.  You  are 
not  a  drop  of  my  own  body.  Carry  your  shame 
with  you.  Get  you  gone  out  of  me  house  before  I 
brand  you. 

MARY  [covering  her  face  with  her  hands]. 
Mother  ! 

STRANGER.  I'll  go,  madam;  do  not  blame  the 
girl. 

MRS.  BRADY.  Blame  you  then,  I  suppose.  You 
are  the  father  of  her  child. 

STRANGER.  Child!  What  child?  Has  she  a 
child? 

MRS.  BRADY.  She  soon  will  have.  No  wonder 
she  wants  to  get  married  to  poor  Mike  to  cover  up 
her  disgrace. 


56 


MARY.  Mother,  mother,  forgive  me.  [Stretch 
ing  out  her  arms  to  Jier  mother] 

MRS.  BRADY.  Go  to  the  priest  ;  pray  with  him, 
but  the  likes  of  you  can  never  stay  in  my  house. 

STRANGER.  If  you  are  her  mother,  can  you 
not  help  her  to  hide  her  shame? 

MRS.  BRADY.  What!  Me!  No,  I'm  not  a 
low-bred  woman.  I'll  not  house  a  strumpet,  if  she 
is  my  own  daughter. 

MARY  [regaining  Jterself,  draws  her  shoulders 
up  defiantly]  .  I'm  not  a  strumpet  —  take  that 
back.  I've  worked  here  like  a  dog  ever  since  I 
was  a  little  child.  I  have  had  no  chance  to  go  to 
school  ;  I  never  could  go  out  on  Sundays  like  other 
girls  ;  I  have  known  nothing  but  the  kitchen  for 
years;  I  never  get  to  town  but  once  in  twelve 
months. 

MRS.  BRADY.     What  more  do  I  get? 

MARY.  But  I  am  not  calling  you  names.  I 
have  done  wrong,  but  I  am  sorry.  [/Sobs]  Will 
you  not  forgive  me? 

MRS.  BRADY.  Sorry  you  were  when  you  tried 
to  marry  a  nice  boy,  and  here  comes  this  old  scoun 
drel  back  just  in  time  to  tell  Mike  what  you  are. 

STRANGER.  My  God,  woman  ;  let  the  girl  be  ! 
I  know  her  not.  Before  my  God  I  swear  it. 


57 


[MRS.  BRADY  gives  him  a  look  of  contempt  and 
goes  out] 

MARY.  Forgive  my  mother,  Stranger.  I  did 
wrong  to  promise  to  marry  Mike,  but  my  lad  said 
he  would  come  back  for  me,  and  when  he  never 
came  and  Mike  said  we  would  be  married,  I  just 
thought  God  made  it  that  way  to  bless  me  —  and 
to  bless  my  babe. 

STRANGER  {m  a  weeping  voice].  And  he  came 
not. 

MARY  [weeping  and  leaning  against  the  table]. 
No. 

STRANGER.  And  what  think  you  to  be  a-doing 
now,  my  lass? 

MARY.  That  I  know  not.  You  be  after  say 
ing  that  you  are  from  beyond  by  the  Catskills. 
Perhaps  if  I  went  there  I  could  find  the  father. 

STRANGER.  What  good  would  that  be  a-doing? 
It's  a  bad  man  he  is  or  he  never  would  have  left 
you. 

MARY.  He  doesn't  know.  He  was  only  a 
stranger,  passing  by. 

STRANGER  [turning  around  to  eye  her].  Sure 
and  I  am  in  a  fair  way  to  get  the  blame  myself 
then. 

MARY.     But  he  said  he  came  from  your  coun- 


58  l£)uman 


try.  If  I  could  see  him  and  tell  him  how  I  love 
him,  perhaps  it  would  melt  his  heart,  if  he  loved 
me  not  afore. 

STRANGER.  They  are  a  bad  lot  down  my  way. 
There's  my  son,  and  he  is  the  worst  of  them  all. 
His  mother  would  not  sleep  at  nights  till  I  went 
out  to  look  him  up,  far  and  near  over  the  hills  — 
and  here  I  am. 

MARY.  But  you  said  you  were  looking  for  a 
cow. 

STRANGER.  So  I  did.  But  if  I  told  anybody  I 
was  looking  for  that  lad,  I'd  be  asked  to  pay  his 
debts,  and  it's  poor  I  am  now  paying  up  what  he 
owes. 

MARY  [going  over  to  him].  It  is  troubles,  too, 
you  have  then.  It  is  all  trouble  in  this  world,  it 
seems. 

STRANGER.  No,  lassie.  The  dew  sparkles  on 
the  clover,  and  the  rain  waters  the  rose  whether  we 
have  our  troubles  or  not.  Cheer  up.  [Wipes  his 
tear-stained  glasses] 

MARY  [m  better  spirits].  Is  it  a  fine  lad  you 
have,  stranger? 

STRANGER.  A  finer  bairn  you  never  saw.  He 
is  like  the  slender  aspen  that  bows  and  croons  as 
if  sugar  wouldn't  melt  in  his  mouth.  He's  ready 


a  mnw*wi*  59 


with  a  story  and  a  good  answer,  and  all  the  girls 
run  after  him,  as  if  he  was  the  lord  of  the  castle 
beyond. 

MARY.  It  is  fine  to  have  such  a  boy.  The  likes 
of  him  his  mother  must  be  proud  of. 

STRANGER.  She  could  not  sleep  these  nights,  or 
I  wouldn't  be  walking  over  the  country  roads  look 
ing  for  his  body.  For  if  he  has  a  spell  of  drink 
ing  on  him  I'm  apt  to  find  him  in  any  ditch. 

MARY.     God  save  him  ! 

MRS.  BRADY  [just  entering].  And  is  here  you 
are  yet?  No  dishes  washed.  [Begins  to  pack 
them  up].  Let  me  at  them  myself,  you  lazy  hussy. 

STRANGER.  She  has  been  talking  to  me,  your 
ladyship.  I  am  feeling  sorry  for  her. 

MRS.  BRADY.  Sorry  you  are  for  her!  Take 
her  off  then  to  your  own  kin.  Perhaps  they  are 
the  likes  of  her. 

MARY.  Don't  talk  that  way  to  the  poor  man. 
[Begins  to  sob]  I  have  no  knowing  of  him  at  all. 
If  you  like,  I'll  go  to  the  river  and  drown  myself. 

STRANGER.  Save  yourself,  child.  There  you 
will  find  yourself  a  heap  sight  worse  off. 

MARY.  I  am  in  a  terrible  plight.  May  God 
take  pity  on  me. 

MR.    BRADY    [entering  tvith   SAM,   PATSY   and 


GO  l^uman 


MIKE].  Now,  mother,  we  are  ready  for  a  bit  of 
fun  tonight  —  I've  promised  Mike  to  drive  him  and 
Mary  over  to  the  Father's  tomorrow. 

MRS.  BRADY.  Better  with  the  likes  of  him  there 
that  came  to  claim  her.  It's  to  him  she  belongs. 

STRANGER  [rising  and  returning  the  gaze  of  the 
men].  It  is  a  sad  plight  I  am  in.  Your  lady  is 
accusing  me  of  being  an  ungodly  man,  and  before 
God  I  swear  I  never  saw  your  daughter  before. 

MR.  BRADY.     And  why  should  she  accuse  you? 

MARY  [runs  and  throws  Jierself  into  MIKE'S 
arms].  Save  me,  Mike.  They  will  kill  me  by 
their  talking. 

MRS.  BRADY.  God  forgive  me,  Patrick,  but  our 
daughter  has  been  making  a  fool  of  us.  Meeting 
this  man  here  until  she  is  with  child  with  him. 

MIKE  [thrusting  MARY  aside].  What  are  you 
saying,  Mrs.  Brady?  This  man  came  a  stranger 
tonight,  asking  a  bed  in  the  barn. 

MR.  BRADY.  And  I  asked  him  into  the  house 
to  sleep  in  the  best  bed  —  gave  him  a  place  at  my 
table.  [His  large  figure  swai/ing  with  emotion] 

MRS.  BRADY.     Ask  Mary  —  she  will  not  deny  it. 

MIKE  [shaking  MARY  with  impatience].  No, 
no,  Mary,  you  will  deny  it  ;  you  can  deny  it. 

PATSY.     I  dare  any  of  you  to  accuse  my  sister. 


a 


SAM.  She  is  the  best  girl  in  the  world  here 
abouts.  [Going  over  to  her]  Mary,  you  are  not 
afraid  —  I  will  stand  by  you.  Reel  it  off. 

STRANGER.  I  will  leave  it  to  the  lass,  she  never 
saw  me  before  until  tonight. 

MARY.  What  you  say  is  true  —  all  true  ;  I 
never  saw  this  man  until  tonight. 

MRS.  BRADY.     Who  is  it  then? 

MIKE.  Speak,  Mary,  speak  darling.  It  is  not 
so.  This  was  to  be  our  wedding  day.  There  is 
no  truth  in  the  other. 

MR.  BRADY.      Come,  let's  not  dilly-dally  longer. 

MIKE  [holding  her  gently].  It  is  not  true,  is 
it,  Mary? 

MARY.     Yes,  Mike,  it  is  all  true.     I  have  de 
ceived   you  —  I   have   deceived   them,   and   I   was 
going  on  to  deceive  you  some  more,  but  mother  — 
she  found  me  out  and  told  you.     I  ask  pity  from 
you,  Mike. 

MIKE  [throwing  her  from  him].  Out  with  you 
•  —  you  hussy.  It  is  a  fine  wedding  day  for  me. 
[Looking  at  the  STRANGER]  Take  her  if  it  is  your 
kind  she  is  after.  A  bed  of  straw  and  the  cow 
barn  for  you  —  to  the  depths  of  the  sea  with  you. 
[Runs  out] 

STRANGER.     Sorry  I  am  to  bring  all  this  trou- 


62 


ble  on  the  family.  I'll  be  out  into  the  night  my 
self  and  find  some  place  to  sleep. 

MARY.     Oh,  do  not  go  without  me. 

MRS.  BRADY.  And  now  you  want  to  be  leaving 
her,  too. 

SAM.  Mary,  sister,  tell  us  before  the  rest  of 
them  is  gone.  I'll  ram  my  fist  down  his  throat. 
I'm  aching  — 

MARY.     Oh,  Sam  —  I  —  I  cannot. 

STRANGER.  Mary,  if  it  is  a  home  you  want,  you 
kin  have  it.  I  have  a  hut  and  a  few  acres,  and  my 
lad's  mother  will  be  a  good  mother  to  you.  We 
will  never  throw  you  in  the  ditch  because  you  do 
not  know  his  name. 

MR.  BRADY.  It's  a  slick  way  you  have,  man, 
of  proving  yourself  innocent. 

PATSY.  Mary,  if  you  don't  tell  us  his  name  I'll 
murder  this  man,  old  as  he  is,  and  may  God  for 
give  me. 

MARY.  He  —  the  stranger  ?  So  was  my  lad 
a  stranger,  and  all  I  know  was  that  his  name  was 
Willie  O'Hara  —  that  lived  beyond  in  the  Cats- 
kills. 

STRANGER.  Willie  O'Hara.  That's  my  own 
lad,  the  skalawag.  Cheat  the  divil  of  his  soul 
anyway.  He  has  caused  me  all  this  trouble  to- 


63 


night,  as  if  I  hadn't  had  twenty  long  years  of  it 
already. 

MRS.  BRADY  [wiping  the  last  of  her  pots'].  And 
sure  she  is  hard  up  to  be  taking  up  and  harbor 
ing  strangers.  Father,  I  will  none  of  her  or  her 
brats  about  this  house. 

SAM.     She  is  our  sister,  dad. 

MR.  BRADY.  Mary  —  you  may  stay  if  you  like. 
Your  dad  will  stick  to  you. 

MARY.  No,  I  have  no  place  in  this  house  any 
longer. 

MRS.  BRADY.  Let  her  go  make  her  bed  with  the 
likes  of  her. 

MARY  [putting  a  shawl  about  her  liead,  she 
walks  over  and  takes  the  STRANGER'S  hand].  If 
you  believe  in  me,  take  me  —  to  him. 

STRANGER.  'Tis  a  pity  God  himself  cannot 
take  you  before  I  take  you  back  to  Willie  O'Hara. 
[They  go  out  into  the  night] 


CURTAIN 


RIPENING  WHEAT 

A  ONE-ACT  PLAY 


CHARACTERS 

JOHN  MENTON,  39  years  old,  a  farmer 
ALICE,  45  years  old,  his  wife 
FRANK  SAWYER,  56  years  old,  a  neighbor 
MATTIE,  22  years  old,  his  wife 


The  room  is  low  and  narrow,  with  a  long  window 
across  the  south  wall  to  let  in  all  the  warmth  and 
sunlight  that  is  to  be  enjoyed  during  the  long 
winters  of  western  Canada.  It  is  now  June,  and 
the  windows,  through  which  the  great  wheat  fields 
can  be  seen  for  miles  in  one  stretch  of  dark  green, 
are  pushed  back.  The  room  comprises  the  living- 
room  and  kitchen,  so  necessary  where  fuel  is  to  be 
considered  during  the  cold  weather.  To  tlie  right 
is  a  cook  stove;  to  the  back,  below  the  windows  is 
a  long  table;  in  the  corner  stands  an  old  English 
sideboard,  to  the  right  of  which  is  a  door  leading 
to  a  pantry.  To  the  left  is  a  drop-leaf  table, 
standing  by  the  side  of  the  wall;  several  chairs  are 
placed  at  regular  intervals  by  the  wall.  Two  old- 
fashioned  but  comfortable  rocking  chairs  with  red 
cushions  are  sitting  m  the  middle  of  the  room.  As 
the  curtain  goes  up  there  is  no  one  on  the  stage, 
but  after  a  moment  JOHN  MENTON  and  MATTIE 
SAWYER  come  in  together,  having  been  to  church. 

JOHN.  Take  off  your  hat  and  shawl,  Mattie; 
make  yourself  at  home.  I'll  have  a  fire  made  'fore 
Alice  and  Frank  get  here. 

67 


68 


MATTIE.  They  are  for  stoppin'  always  at  the 
barn  to  look  at  the  calves.  What  can  a  body  see 
in  a  cow  to  admire,  now  just  tell  me? 

JOHN.     I  don't  be  a  caring  as  long  as  I  got  you. 

MATTIE  [with  her  Cockney  drawl]  .  'Ow  should 
anybody  be  a  carin'  for  cattle  when  they  got  people 
to  love? 

JOHN.  I  use  to  think  a  great  deal  about  them 
until  you  came. 

MATTIE.  [Tall  and  slender  as  a  blade  of  grass, 
with  youth  beaming  forth  from  every  look  and 
gesture,  she  hangs  lier  shawl  and  hat  upon  a  nail, 
and  then  runs  her  fingers  through  her  soft,  yellow 
hair]  You  ain't  got  me  all  the  time,  that's  what's 
worryin'  me. 

JOHN  [studying].  Things  are  one-sided  in  this 
world  —  mine  has  always  been  so. 

MATTIE.  Mine  has  been  lop-sided  from  the  very 
beginning. 

JOHN.  If  I  had  only  tried  to  right  them,  but 
I  just  let  things  drift  along  too  long  before  I  knew 
just  where  I  was  at. 

MATTIE.  What's  done  can't  be  'elped,  and  if 
I  'ad  stayed  in  London,  you  never  would  'ave  found 
me. 

JOHN  [with  the  tan  of  spring  plowing  and  sow- 


Eipening  Wheat  69 

ing  still  on  his  face,  is  dressed  in  his  Sunday 
clothes,  bought  some  ten  years  before.  There  is 
kindness  as  well  as  character,  gained  through  pri 
vation,  well  marked  on  his  features  as  he  stands 
looking  at  MATTIE],  Yes,  that  is  so;  in  London 
I  never  would  have  found  you. 

MATTIE.  Just  think,  I've  only  known  you  two 
months. 

JOHN.  [Goes  over  to  her  by  the  pantry  door] 
Mattie,  Mattie!  do  you  understand  me  —  my  love? 

MATTIE.  Be  off  with  you  and  do  your  feedin' 
'fore  they  get  'ere.  I'll  meet  you  tomorrow  where 
the  road  branches  off  to  McKeever's. 

JOHN.  I  cannot  wait  until  then  to  have  you 
tell  me  —  Mattie ! 

SAWYER  [appears  in  the  doorway  as  the  last 
word  is  spoken.  He  stops,  and  MATTIE,  facing 
him,  wards  off  JOHN'S  approach  by  the  changed 
look  in  her  face].  Is  it  here  you  are  without  a 
fire  laid? 

JOHN  [going  into  the  pantry,  knocks  a  lot  of 
pans  down  in  his  confusion],  Alice  is  such  a  fine 
housekeeper  that  one  can  never  lay  his  hands  on 
a  thing  that's  wanted. 

SAWYER.     What's  wanting,  John? 

JOHN.      [MATTIE  is  taking  down  ALICE'S  apron 


70  l^uman 


to  help  prepare  dinner']  The  kindling.  I  cannot 
find  a  shaving. 

SAWYER  [going  to  the  basket  behind  the  stove]. 
Here's  a  plenty. 

JOHN  [in  surprise  and  disgust].     Oh? 

SAWYER  [takes  a  bit  and  begins  to  lay  the  fire 
himself].  You're  a  bit  nervous,  lad.  Let  me 
do  it. 

MATTIE  [m  a  storming  rage].  You  are  a  fine 
guest  comin'  'ere  to  put  a  man  hout  of  'is  wits, 
and  not  lettin'  'm  do  'is  own  chores.  Out  wid  you, 
let  Mr.  Menton  himself  — 

SAWYER  [standing  erect  and  facing  her,  with 
shavings  in  his  hands].  I  have  had  enough  of 
this  now,  Mattie.  What's  come  over  you  the  last 
month?  There  is  no  living  with  you  any  more. 

MATTIE.  [JOHN  is  lighting  the  fire]  Matter 
enough  ;  when  you  married  me  why  didn't  you  tell 
me  of  what  was  expectin'  of  me? 

SAWYER.     So  I  did. 

MATTIE.  No,  there  were  no  words  of  'ouse- 
work,  milkin',  feedin'  stock  and  the  likes  no  woman 
ever  'card  of  in  Hingland. 

SAWYER.     I  told  you  of  my  great  wheat  fields. 

MATTIE  That's  just  hit.  You  was  full  of  the 
wind  sweepin'  the  grain  like  waves  of  the  ocean, 


Eipening  &3f)eat  71 

and  the  gold  field  that  called  forth  the  man  of  life 
within  you  when  your  harvest  was  on. 

SAWYER.  And  you'll  see  it  all,  Mattie,  when 
the  wheat  is  growing  and  ripening.  Now  she  is 
but  a  green  carpet,  covering  the  old,  brown  earth. 

MATTIE.  But  she  doesn't  come  in  and  do  my 
work.  You  are  makin'  a  slave  of  me  instead  of 
the  lidy  I  ought  to  be.  [JOHN  coughs  and  goes 
out] 

SAWYER.  The  lady  you  ought  to  be.  Sure  I 
took  you  out  of  the  slums  of  London,  out  of  where 
the  rats  even  refused  to  live,  and  brought  you  out 
here  —  where  life  is  wholesome  and  sweet. 

MATTIE.  You  said  I  would  be  a  lily  in  the 
wheat  fields. 

SAWYER.     So  you  are,  lass. 

MATTIE.  No,  I  am  not  [standing  in  pantry 
door  with  pan  in  hand] ,  rather  a  — 

SAWYER  [walking  back  and  forth  across  the 
floor].  It  is  hard  work  transplanting  plants  from 
one  soil  to  another,  and  I  'spose  I  did  make  a  mis 
take  bringing  you  out  here. 

MATTIE.  I  likes  the  soil  all  right,  but  what  is 
there  in  the  world  for  me  now?  I  can  see  just 
what  I  am  to  do  every  day  for  the  next  forty 
years.  Day  in  and  day  out  it  will  be  — 


72 


SAWYER.  Isn't  it  a  fine  work  then  we  will  do? 
In  twenty  years  we  will  be  the  greatest  land  owners 
in  miles  about. 

MATTIE.  You  can  'ave  the  land,  but  what  I 
wants  is  life  —  life.  [Looking  about]  I  cannot 
find  a  potato  in  the  'ouse. 

SAWYER.     Let  me  go  to  the  cave  and  get  some. 

MATTIE.  No,  I  wants  to  go  myself.  [Goes  out 
carrying  pan] 

SAWYER,  [still  pacing  the  floor].  You  cannot 
make  wheat  grow  in  a  worn-out  soil,  and  you  can 
not  make  a  girl  love  an  old  man.  [Stands  wring 
ing  his  hands] 

ALICE  MENTON  [comes  in  at  the  door.  She  has 
a  strong  face,  somewhat  hard,  made  so  by  the 
long  years  of  pioneer  life.  There  are  traces  of 
her  former  beauty  in  the  outline  of  lier  features, 
although  the  wind  and  weather  on  the  prairie  have 
taken  all  the  softness  out  of  her  skin].  I'm  not 
much  of  a  neighbor  when  I  leave  your  wife  to  get 
dinner,  but  I  was  worried  about  that  sick  calf. 

SAWYER.      She  don't  mind  a  bit,  Alice.      She  — 

ALICE.  No,  no  ;  don't  tell  me  that.  She's  but 
a  girl  yet,  and  it  is  no  easy  work  to  settle  down  to 
this  rough  life. 

SAWYER.     Yes,  I  know.     But  I  was  in  the  hopes 


Hipening  GB&eat  73 

she  would  like  it.  I  have  been  trying  to  make 
things  as  easy  as  I  could.  I  — 

ALICE.  It  killed  your  first  wife.  For  ten  years 
I  watched  her  growing  sadder  and  sadder  'fore  she 
took  to  her  bed.  [Goes  into  room  on  the  left  to 
lay  her  hat  and  shawl  away] 

SAWYER.  And  the  five  years  she  was  bed-ridden 
you  was  mighty  good  to  her.  [Sits  down  in  a 
rocker] 

ALICE.  I  just  tried  to  be  a  good  neighbor, 
man.  [Begins  setting  the  table] 

SAWYER.  You  were  that.  I  always  wanted  to 
repay  you  in  some  way. 

ALICE  [coming  over  to  him].  Repay  me?  Re 
pay.  I  told  you  oft  that  I  asked  but  one  thing 
in  return. 

SAWYER   [impatiently].     Yes,  yes.     I  know. 

ALICE  [waiting;  after  a  moment's  pause].  Did 
you  see  her  when  you  was  in  London? 

SAWYER  [trying  to  evade  answer].  Mattie 
went  to  get  some  potatoes. 

ALICE.  I  have  waited  and  waited  for  you  to  tell 
me.  You  said  as  soon  as  you  got  to  London  you'd 
hunt  up  my  little  one,  my  child,  and  tell  me  about 
her. 

SAWYER.     Yes  ? 


74, 


ALICE  [in  an  agonized  manner].  But  where 
was  she  ?  Would  I  — 

SAWYER.     She'd  be  no  disgrace  to  you. 

ALICE  [stretching  out  her  arms  to  him].  You 
did  see  her,  then? 

SAWYER  [crosses  his  legs,  and  looks  as  if  he 
were  being  cross-examined.  Biting  his  lips,  nods 
in  answer] 

ALICE;.     What  was  she  doing,  what  is  she  like? 

SAWYER.  I  will  tell  you  some  other  time,  Alice  ; 
I  cannot  tell  you  now. 

ALICE.  Then  I  would  be  ashamed  of  her.  'Tis 
me  to  blame.  I  deserted  her,  left  her  in  a  found 
lings'  home. 

SAWYER.  Alice,  you  are  a  good  woman;  you 
have  been  kind  to  every  neighbor  for  miles  around 
here. 

ALICE  [with  a  silencing  hand].  No,  no  ;  I  have 
been  punished  in  my  silence. 

SAWYER.  But  I  cannot  understand  how  you 
could  desert  a  little  child  —  your  own  child.  It 
doesn't  seem  like  you. 

ALICE  [throwing  her  hands  to  her  eyes].  No, 
no,  don't. 

SAWYER.     Perhaps  I  have  no  right  to  judge. 

ALICE.     I  met  John  then,  and  I  dared  not  tell 


Ripening  TOeat  75 

him.  He  was  young,  handsome,  and  the  girls  were 
all  after  him. 

SAWYER.     He  loved  you. 

ALICE.  No,  I  loved  him,  and  I  urged  him  to  go 
out  to  Canada  where  I  could  have  him  all  to  my 
self. 

SAWYER.     He  would  have  forgave  you. 

ALICE.  No,  no,  Frank  Sawyer;  I  tried  it  on 
him  several  times  by  putting  my  story  in  other 
women's  hearts,  and  he  listened  with  no  sympathy 
whatever. 

SAWYER.  Ah,  John  always  seemed  a  kind,  good 
man. 

ALICE.  So  he  is,  but  he  never  would  have  for 
gave  me  for  deceiving  him.  He  — 

SAWYER.     Neither  will  God. 

ALICE.  Don't  say  that,  Sawyer.  God  is  merci 
ful.  I  had  been  deceived  by  the  child's  father,  and 
how  could  I  support  a  child  on  five  bob  a  week? 
But  I  always  intended  to  do  the  right  thing  by 
the  little  one  until  I  met  John. 

SAWYER.     He  would  have  helped  you. 

ALICE.  I  loved  him  too  much.  I  couldn't  bear 
to  see  him  a  lovin'  anybody  else. 

SAWYER.     Not  even  your  own  child? 

ALICE  [slowly].     Not  even  my  own  child. 


76  Oilman 


SAWYER  [thoughtfully].     Queer? 

ALICE.  No,  you  cannot  understand.  John 
being  younger  than  myself,  with  a  girl  around 
growing  up  into  womanhood  it  may  have  made  him 
like  her  — 

SAWYER.     Like  his  own  daughter. 

ALICE.  I  was  afraid  of  even  that.  I  could  not 
share  John's  love  with  even  my  own  child. 

SAWYER.     But  — 

ALICE.  Tell  me  of  her.  What  is  she  like,  what 
is  she  doing?  Is  she  a  fine  lass? 

SAWYER.     She  is. 

ALICE  [waiting].     And? 

SAWYER.     She  ?     Why  - 

ALICE  [clenching  her  hands].     Yes! 

SAWYER.  [MATTIE'S  voice  is  heard  as  she  comes 
down  the  path  singing  a  refrain  from  an  old  Eng 
lish  ballad}  Mattie  is  coming;  she'll  hear  you. 
[As  she  passes  the  window,  with  wind-tossed  hair, 
her  youth  is  all  aglow]  She  is  a  fine  lass  that. 

ALICE  [to  MATTIE].  Your  husband  is  here 
doting  on  you. 

MATTIE.  There  won't  be  much  left  to  dote  on 
after  a  woman  'as  been  out  'ere  a  year.  In  two 
months  my  skin  is  like  a  piece  of  old  leather. 


Ripening  Meat 77 

SAWYER.  Yes,  it  even  hurts  my  poor  lass  to 
laugh. 

MATTIE.  Mr.  Menton  is  troubled  about  the 
sick  calf,  Frank,  and  wants  you  to  come  out  and 
'elp  'im. 

ALICE.  I  am  afraid  we  are  going  to  lose  that 
little  heifer,  and  them  so  scarce  these  days. 

SAWYER.  I'll  go  and  see  what  I  can  do.  [Goes 
out] 

MATTIE.  Sure  a  calf,  more  or  less,  in  these 
parts  don't  matter. 

ALICE.  Oh,  yes,  it  does  matter,  my  girl. 
Every  little  one  means  a  hundred  dollars  in  a  year. 
That's  good  interest  on  a  small  investment. 

MATTIE.  What  do  I  care  about  the  hinterest? 
It's  a  'undred  dollars  taken  out  of  my  life's  blood, 
and  more  — 

ALICE.  Don't  say  that,  child.  In  twenty 
years  you'll  be  rich  enough  to  go  into  Calgary  and 
buy  a  nice  home,  and  be  at  ease  the  rest  of  your 
life. 

MATTIE  [dropping  the  knife  into  the  pan  of 
potatoes  with  a  thud].  Twenty  years!  Twenty 
years  did  you  say? 

ALICE.     Yes. 


78 


MATTIE.  Give  twenty  years  of  life  slavin'  and 
starvin'  to  'ave  money  to  retire  on?  What  am  I 
goin'  to  'ave  now  —  now  that  I  'ave  my  youth? 
My  very  heart  is  beatin'  my  sides  now  to  get  free. 

ALICE.  To  get  free!  Mattie,  you  don't 
mean  — 

MATTIE.  Yes,  I  mean  that  I  would  rather  go 
to  jail  or  die  than  endure  this  life  any  longer. 

ALICE.  You  have  a  good  husband;  he's  had 
such  a  hard  pull  of  it  for  years.  Now  with  you 
he  is  just  getting  on  his  feet. 

MATTIE.  'E'll  not  make  a  beast  of  burden  of 
me  [with  a  thoughtful  stare],  carryin'  slop  to  the 
pigs,  sucklin'  the  calves,  drivin'  the  plow  from 
sun-up  to  sun-down. 

ALICE.  That's  what  I  have  done  for  more  than 
fifteen  years,  Mattie,  and  now  see  what  John  and 
I  have  got  —  something  for  our  old  age.  But  I 
cannot  let  the  little  thing  die,  I  must  go  and  see 
if  I  can  help,  too.  [Goes  out] 

MATTIE  [alone].  What  John  and  I  'ave,  what 
John  and  I  'ave.  [Sees  JOHN  coming  past  tlie 
window]  What's  the  matter? 

JOHN.  Nothing,  lass.  I  want  to  get  some  hot 
water. 

MATTIE.     Alice  's  just  been  talkin'  to  me  about 


Hipening  (KBfjeat  79 

'ow  'ard  she  'as  worked  for  what  you  and  she  'ave. 
Perhaps  — 

JOHN.  Perhaps  nothing.  You  are  not  going 
back  on  your  word.  We'll  out  of  it  all,  and  go 
where  we  can  have  one  another.  What  more  do 
we  want? 

MATTIE  [obedient],     Nothin',  John,  nothin'. 

JOHN.  Well,  then  let  her  do  the  worrying. 
She's  driven  me  like  a  horse  ever  since  I  married 
her.  I  was  a  mere  lad,  and  knew  nothing  of  love. 
She  told  me  that  I  loved  her,  but  when  I  met  you, 
lass,  then  I  knew  for  the  first  time  what  love  was. 

MATTIE.  "Pis  the  love  of  my  dreams  all  come 
real. 

JOHN.  Year  after  year  as  I  plowed  the  fields 
and  sowed  the  grain  I  saw  you  always  a  little  ahead 
of  me  in  the  furrow.  I  use  to  call  to  you  to  stop ; 
didn't  you  ever  hear  me? 

MATTIE.  Yes,  John,  I  heard  you,  but  I  was 
far  across  the  waters. 

JOHN  [throwing  his  arms  about  her,  he  buries 
his  face  against  hers] .  Oh,  my  love,  my  love ! 

ALICE  [is  seen  looking  through  the  window. 
She  comes  m  with  a  mad  rush,  grabbing  JOHN'S 
sleeve] .  What  do  you  mean  ?  What  — 

JOHN.     Alice ! 


so  ^uman  22Jis;p0 

ALICE  [going  at  MAT-TIE].  You  hypocrite,  out 
of  here !  Why  do  you  come  here  and  steal  my  hus 
band  ? 

JOHN  [standing  between  them,  extending  a  pro 
tecting  arm  to  MATTIE].  Alice,  it  is  my  doing; 
blame  me. 

ALICE.  You,  my  husband!  No,  I  will  not  be 
lieve  it. 

JOHN.  I  have  been  a  changed  man  ever  since 
I  saw  Mattie.  I  love  her ! 

ALICE.  She's  a  harlot.  I  knew  it  the  first  time 
I  saw  her.  She  has  a  good  husband,  and  she  treats 
him  like  a  dog. 

MATTIE  [in  a  rage\.  Yes,  I  treat  him  like  a 
dog.  I  know  it,  but  I  am  no  beast  of  burden  for 
him  to  ride  to  death. 

ALICE.     You  are  too  lazy  to  work. 

MATTIE.  How  can  a  woman  work  when  there 
is  no  love  in  the  doing  of  things,  or  for  the  man 
that  you  are  married  to  ? 

ALICE.     He  is  your  husband. 

MATTIE.  Yes,  in  name  only.  I  was  born  in 
the  filth  of  London,  reared  in  its  darkness  and 
poverty,  and  when  Frank  Sawyer  came  along  and 
hoffered  to  take  me  out  into  the  sunlight,  I  gladly 
haccepted.  Then  when  I  came  'ere  I  found  love. 


Bipemng  TOeat  si 

JOHN.     Yes,  we  love  one  another,  Alice.     We  — 

ALICE.  You  dare  to  flaunt  it  in  my  face.  You, 
my  husband,  that  I  have  trusted. 

JOHN.  I  have  sacrificed  enough  of  my  life  with 
you. 

MATTIE.  I  'ave  my  life  to  live,  too.  You  don't 
think  I  am  going  to  sacrifice  hit  for  marriage 
scruples  either. 

ALICE.  You  are  a  cur  —  worse  than  the  low 
est  of  women. 

JOHN.     Alice ! 

ALICE.  A  woman  that  would  take  the  husband 
of  another  woman  is  a  thief  without  a  price. 

MATTIE  [taking  the  knife  out  of  the  pan  and 
swinging  it  in  her  wrath].  That  is  not  so.  I  'ad 
my  chance  in  the  slums  of  London,  but  I  wouldn't 
sell  myself  that  cheap. 

ALICE.  You  came  out  here  with  Frank  Sawyer 
as  a  mere  blind.  You  sold  yourself  to  him  for  a 
railroad  ticket  just  so  you  could  flirt  with  men. 
Here  I  find  you  in  the  arms  of  my  husband. 

JOHN.  We  are  going  away,  Alice.  Mattie  and 
I  will  start  life  in  some  new  place. 

ALICE.  Away!  [Staggers  back  toward  the 
door]  Away!  No,  no,  my  God,  don't  do  that. 

MATTIE.     You  'ave  'ad  'im  long  enough  without 


82 


love.  Your  marriage  has  been  on  the  altar  of 
make-believe,  too. 

ALICE.     Without  love? 

JOHN.     Yes,  Alice.     I  never  loved  you. 

MATTIE.  'E  loves  me,  'e  loves  me.  See  !  [She 
goes  up  and  throws  her  arms  about  John} 

ALICE  [putting  a  revolver  from  the  table 
drawer~\.  He  does,  does  he?  \Shoot  s\ 

MATTIE  [falling  in  JOHN'S  arms].     John! 

JOHN.     What  have  you  done,  Alice? 

SAWYER  [appearing  in  the  doorway  hesitates 
for  a  moment,  then  staggers  forward  and  grabs 
the  revolver  out  of  ALICE'S  hand].  My  God, 
woman  !  You  have  shot  your  own  daughter. 

ALICE  [stands  pinned  to  the  floor  for  a  minute, 
then  rushes  forward  and  takes  MATTIE  in  her  arms, 
weeping]  .  My  —  little  —  girl  ! 


CURTAIN 


THE  NEW  RACE 

A  ONE-ACT  PLAY 


CHARACTERS 

STRENGTH,  a  Russian,  father  of  the  new  race 
CHERRY  BLOSSOM,  a  Japanese,  mother  of  the  new 

race 

LIFE,  the  last  of  the  old  American  race 
OLD  AGE,  his  mother 
TIME,  father  of  all  time 
Japanese  Travelers 


The  facade  of  an  ancient  and  dilapidated  cathe 
dral  on  Morningside  Heights  in  New  York  is 
faintly  seen  in  the  dying  day.  Beyond,  in  tlie 
west,  silver  clouds  are  fading  away  into  the  red 
sky,  deepening  with  the  setting  of  the  sun.  This 
is  soon  changed  into  a  sombre  gray,  as  a  few  dark 
clouds  develop  and  roll  across  the  sky,  behind 
which  the  new  moon  can  be  seen  at  intervals.  A 
half  discernible  figure  of  a  decrepit  old  man  can  be 
seen  moving  across  the  foreground  into  the  church. 
A  few  lights  spring  up  through  the  windows  and 
door  of  the  cathedral,  then  slowly  a  red  glow,  the 
reflection  of  a  large  bonfire,  one  of  many  that  the 
inhabitants  start  at  dusk  to  light  the  remnant  of 
their  city,  spreads  over  the  great  mass  of  rock  that 
once  was  the  pride  of  the  greatest  city  in  America. 

Time  %500  A.  D. 

LIFE.  [A  small,  Hi-shaped  individual,  repre 
senting  the  last  of  the  American  race,  is  seen 
crouching  on  the  steps]  Why  stand  you  there, 
Time,  eyeing  me  like  a  toad?  Think  you  that  it 
is  my  day  to  pass  into  the  great  eternity? 

TIME  [the  old,  symbolic  figure,  chuckles  to  him- 

85 


86  l^uman 


self  as  he  stands,  enveloped  in  a  long  coat,  in  the 
arched  doorway].  What  difference  does  it  make 
whether  you  live  in  this  world  or  the  next,  so  spent 
are  your  forces? 

LIFE.  So  say  you,  but  I  know  no  other.  I 
have  always  been  like  this.  You  tell  me  of  my 
people  —  of  a  strong  and  mighty  race  that  lived 
here,  the  mingling  of  all  the  nations  of  Europe. 
Methinks  it  is  another  childish  story  of  yours 
[shnekf\t  like  the  glove  of  the  giant  in  the  thumb 
of  which  Thor  lived. 

TIME  [drawing  his  mantle  more  closely  about 
him  and  with  a  weary  sigh].  So  it  is,  so  it  has 
ever  been,  so  it  shall  ever  be  ! 

LIFE  {with  a  conquering  cough].  Then  why 
do  you  stand  here  mocking  me  and  my  people? 
We  are  living,  loving,  forgetting! 

STRENGTH.  [A  strong  stalwart  youth,  whose 
dress  indicates  that  he  belongs  to  the  steppes  of 
Russia,  appears  over  the  edge  of  the  rocks,  carry 
ing  a  heavy  sack  on  his  back]  Living,  loving, 
forgetting.  Life,  you  are  too  serious.  [Looks 
at  LIFE  with  pity,  and  disappears  through  a  hole 
into  the  crypt] 

TIME.  You  are  living  only  on  the  dregs  of  the 
past,  my  boy. 


Cfje  H3eto  Uace  87 

LIFE.  What  do  we  care !  Our  ancestors  made 
the  world  in  which  we  live,  and  we  are  content  with 
it.  You  stay  here,  I  see. 

TIME.  Content  to  be  shriveled  up  —  mere 
ghosts  of  your  forefathers ;  content  to  eat  the 
food  that  the  animals  of  your  ancestors  refused; 
content  with  the  lustful  existence  that  was  only 
licensed  to  the  fallen? 

LIFE.  Say  not  so,  Father  Time.  You  are  an 
old  prude.  You  judge  the  present  standards  with 
the  moral  code  of  the  Puritans. 

TIME.  When  America  first  built  her  boat,  it 
was  her  intention  to  gather  the  best  brain  and 
brawn  of  Europe  and  man  it,  but  wealth  and  lux 
ury  came  too  easily  and  they  hired  out  the  work 
of  its  steering.  Before  they  knew  it,  others  who 
were  jealous  bribed  the  crew.  When  the  crew 
could  no  longer  be  relied  upon,  what  was  to  be 
expected  of  their  children,  their  children's  chil 
dren  ? 

LIFE.     And  now,  old  father? 

TIME  [sighing,  reflecting,  and  pausing  as  his 
eye  scans  the  city  before  him~\.  Now,  all  seem  to 
be  misguided,  flitting  before  the  lights  of  mockery ; 
the  children  of  these  misguided  parents  cry  and 
sing  in  their  superficial  happiness.  The  bones  of 


88 


the  dead  are  too  saturated  with  vice  to  rot;  they 
sing  in  their  sizzling  with  joy  over  the  ruin  they 
have  brought  to  the  once  God-given  America. 

LIFE  [frightened,  drawing  back].  Time,  you 
blaspheme  this  sacred  earth  ! 

TIME  [with  a  hollow  laugh].  Sacred!!!  Sa 
cred!!!  [The  sneer  dies  away  in  echoes] 

OLD  AGE.  [A  very  old,  bent  and  ragged  form 
comes  creeping  up  the  steps]  'Tis  you,  Time, 
that  I  have  spent  thirty-five  years  in  finding. 
You  robbed  me  of  my  youth,  my  jewels,  my  ability 
to  earn  a  living.  You  took  from  me  my  beauty, 
my  wealth,  the  keen  edge  of  my  wits,  and  have 
left  only  these  old  rags  in  their  place.  Do  you 
think  that  they  glorify  me?  Down  on  your  knees  ; 
beg  my  pardon  and  ask  the  great  Divine  Spirit  to 
forgive  you.  The  footlights  of  the  world  are 
calling  me  back,  are  calling  me  back  to  amuse  them, 
but  you  wrinkled  my  brow,  you  parched  my  skin, 
and  made  me  the  hag  that  you  now  see  me.  Give 
me  back  my  youth,  my  beauty,  my  lovers. 

TIME.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  You  witch;  thousands 
have  fallen  in  your  pathway.  I  gave  you  warn 
ing  innumerable  times,  but  you  waved  them  aside 
only  to  mock  me.  Here  is  your  child,  Life.  Be 
hold  him  in  all  his  magnificence.  He  represents 


dace  89 


the  glittering  diamond,  the  wine  room,  the  pawn 
shop,  all  in  one;  contrast  him  with  your  old  mil 
lionaire  lover  that  had  lost  every  trace  of  man 
hood.  His  bag  of  gold  bought  you  the  late  sup 
pers,  but  stole  from  you  the  bloom  of  your  cheeks, 
and  little  by  little  we  see  no  longer  beauty,  but  the 
dissipated  girl  who  soon  became  an  old  woman, 
a  toothless  scrub-woman,  then  the  beggar.  Look 
at  him  well,  Old  Age.  His  shrunken  frame  is  the 
result  of  a  life  of  pleasure  begun  with  the  first 
glass  of  wine.  Do  you  remember  how  you  blushed 
and  apologized  as  you  circled  your  sweet  white 
hand  about  the  stem  of  the  crystal  glass?  He 
was  lurking  in  its  depths  ;  you  did  not  see  him 
then,  but  he  has  no  doubt  been  revealed  to  you  in 
the  dreary  years  that  have  followed,  in  the  cuffs 
and  the  rebuffs,  in  the  curses  that  society  put  upon 
you  as  it  stamped  you  under  its  feet,  and  photo 
graphed  him  to  you  of  what  he  might  have  been. 
[Laughs]  I  saw  him  then  as  I  see  him  now,  plead 
ing  with  you  for  a  chance  at  manhood,  to  be  all 
that  God  intended  him  to  be  —  you  robbed  him  of 
everything,  —  then  you  ask  for  mercy  ? 

OLD  AGE  [shaking  zdth  rage].  Curses  on  thee, 
get  thee  gone!  Out  of  my  sight,  you  bewildering 
fool.  What  do  you  mean  by  laying  the  curse  of 


90 


the  world  at  my  feet?  May  God  smite  you  with 
his  rod  of  iron  !  You  have  lived  too  long  now. 
[In  a  pleading  voice]  Oh,  give  me  back  my  youth, 
my  beauty,  for  woman  is  naught  without  them. 
[Falls  in  a  swoon~\ 

LIFE.     What  have  you  done  now,  Time? 

TIME.  Just  what  I  have  been  doing  for  a 
million  years  or  more. 

LIFE  [hobbling  over  to  his  mother].  My 
mother!  How  sacred  is  the  word!  Arise,  fear 
him  not,  for  I  am  here  to  shield  you.  All  the 
Rolands  of  old  are  not  dead  yet.  (Time  mocks 
me,  but  I  heed  him  not)  yes  ;  here  lingers  chivalry, 
duty,  loyalty.  Mother,  do  you  not  hear  your 
son's  voice?  He  calls,  he  calls. 

TIME.  Yes,  but  he  calls  in  vain  [in  a  sarcastic 
voice] 

LIFE.  Well  has  my  mother  defined  you  ;  well 
has  she  outlined  your  deeds,  your  crimes.  Away 
with  you,  vanish  into  the  world  of  forgetfulness  ; 
I  want  one  more  hour  to  live. 

TIME  [fading  away  slowly  as  he  speaks]. 
What  is  one  hour  compared  to  the  millions  of 
eternity? 

LIFE.  I  know  of  this  hour;  I  know  nothing  of 
the  lies  that  you  tell  about  the  future  and  the  mil- 


Jl2eto  Race  91 


lion  and  million  of  years  to  come.  [Looks  up, 
and  seeing  that  TIME  has  gone  cries\  Thief, 
where  goest  thou  now? 

FIRST  TRAVELER.  [A  band  of  weary  travelers, 
with  heavy  sacks  on  their  backs,  comes  over  the 
ledge  in  front  of  the  cathedral.  They  are  dark 
skinned,  arched  eyed,  and  dressed  in  heavy  tunics, 
roped  in  at  the  waist  like  the  fathers  of  the  East. 
They  drop  their  loads~\  Let  us  rest  awhile  here, 
comrades  ;  there  seems  to  be  habitation  here,  and 
perhaps  some  living  soul  will  give  us  a  bidding; 
perhaps  life  is  better  here  than  we  have  seen  it 
down  at  the  shore. 

SECOND  TRAVELER.  No,  no,  brother,  stay  not 
here.  The  pathway  was  strewn  with  death.  We 
come  here  for  life,  so  let  us  seek  shelter  for  the 
night  where  the  vultures  will  not  mistake  us  for 
the  dead. 

THIRD  TRAVELER.  Methinks  if  we  hurry  we 
can  yet  reach  yonder  shore,  where  our  camp  is 
pitched. 

STRENGTH  [coming  out  of  hole  in  the  crypt~\. 
Oh,  ho,  some  strangers,  I  see.  Welcome  to  this 
city  of  desolation.  Such  as  it  is,  you  may  share. 

FIRST  TRAVELER.  Kind  sir,  we  are  looking  for 
homes,  and  in  our  search  wandered  farther  away 


92 


from  our  camp  than  was  wise  for  the  time  of  day. 

STRENGTH.  Tarry  not  long  here  then, 
strangers.  This  is  the  home  of  everything  but 
God's  love.  [Sees  CHERRY  BLOSSOM  and  paiises] 

FIRST  TRAVELER  [after  a  moment's  silence]. 
Speak  to  the  stranger,  daughter.  Have  you  no 
word  of  greeting? 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM  [embarrassed].  What  shall 
I  say,  my  father? 

STRENGTH  [wishing  to  help  her].  It  is  my 
place  to  greet  her.  Welcome  you  are,  fair  daugh 
ter  of  the  East. 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM  [spellbound].  We  tarry  not 
long,  stranger,  but  we  thank  you. 

SECOND  TRAVELER.  Our  camp  is  on  yonder 
hills  ;  can  you  direct  us  there  by  some  short 
route? 

STRENGTH  [with  a  glance  toward  CHERRY 
BLOSSOM].  Will  you  not  remain  here  for  a  while? 
The  church  is  at  your  disposal,  and  I  live  in  the 
cellar  yonder  in  great  comfort,  which  shall  be 
yours  as  long  as  you  care  to  stay. 

THIRD  TRAVELER,  It  is  not  comforts  that  we 
are  looking  for,  sir.  We  are  looking  for  life,  and 
all  the  things  that  make  for  life. 

STRENGTH.     So  I  offer  you  here. 


C|je  Jfteto  laace  93 

FIRST  TRAVELER.  Say  not  so,  stranger.  We 
find  this  once  great  city  nothing  but  heaps  of 
stone  and  brick,  and  the  dwellers  poor  imitations 
of  what  men  ought  to  be. 

STRENGTH.  Put  yourself  to  test  here,  then ; 
abide  in  their  midst,  and  teach  them  to  the  way  of 
higher  life. 

SECOND  TRAVELER.  So  great  are  they  in  num 
ber  they  would  pull  our  children  down  and  our 
people  would  soon  be  wiped  out.  [Turning  to  the 
crowd]  No,  no,  brethren,  let  us  not  remain  here 
in  the  midst  of  rack  and  ruin,  but  go  to  the  open 
fields  again. 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM  [seeing  the  men  are  about  to 
take  up  their  packs,  she  looks  hopefully  at 
STRENGTH,  then  runs  to  her  father].  Can  we  not 
remain  a  day  or  two,  father,  just  to  see  some  of 
the  wonderful  old  buildings  and  the  great  under 
ground  passages? 

STRENGTH  [with  enthusiasm].  And  I  will  show 
them  to  you,  my  — 

FIRST  TRAVELER.  No,  no,  my  child,  this  is  no 
place  for  you  to  abide,  show  us  the  way,  my  friend, 
and  we  will  make  for  our  boats. 

STRENGTH  [reluctantly].  To  the  right  behind 
the  cathedral  you  will  find  a  pathway  that  will 


94.  ^uman  2x3i0p0 

take  you  to  the  river,  where  you  will  find  some 
fishermen;  they  will  direct  you  from  there. 

SECOND  TRAVELER.  Onward  then,  my  men. 
[They  all  lift  their  burdens  and  start  forward, 
except  CHERRY  BLOSSOM.  She  stands  gazing  at 
STRENGTH]  The  moon  will  soon  be  up  to  help 
us  keep  in  the  path. 

STRENGTH  [following  CHERRY  BLOSSOM,  as  she 
is  the  last  to  leave  the  stage,  he  stops  just  at  the 
feet  of  LIFE,  who  is  still  sitting  in  the  corner  of 
the  steps.  With  outstretched  arms].  Come  to 
me  again  in  my  dreams,  my  fairy  one.  Come  to 
me  —  [CHERRY  BLOSSOM  looks  back  until  she 
disappears,  but  says  nothing] 

LIFE  [with  a  laugh  that  echoes  through  the  very 
walls  of  the  church].  And  you  lost  your  little 
fairy  one,  didn't  you? 

STRENGTH  [wishing  to  kick  him].     Whelp! 

LIFE.  She  was  a  pretty  one,  wasn't  she?  If 
you  hadn't  been  here  I  might  have  stood  a  chance 
myself. 

STRENGTH  [with  contempt].  You!  Life,  you 
cannot  see  your  own  shortcomings.  Don't  you 
see  your  shriveled  body,  your  crooked  legs,  your 
cocked  eyes,  all  of  which  are  hideous  to  beautiful 
woman  ? 


95 


LIFE.  My  heart  throbs  just  the  same  as  yours 
for  the  love  of  the  beautiful.  If  women  had 
learned  that  lesson  long  ago,  that  love  and  ugli 
ness  brought  harmony  to  the  home,  there  would 
have  been  fewer  of  you  Apollos  brought  into  the 
divorce  courts. 

STRENGTH  [going  on  his  wa,y\.  My  people 
have  all  been  Apollos,  but  none  of  them  ever 
sought  a  divorce,  because  life  began  and  ended  in 
the  home.  Something  very  strange  must  have 
entered  into  the  homes  of  this  land? 

LIFE  [alone].  Some  day  I  am  going  to  throt 
tle  that  fellow.  He  - 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM  [comes  running  back]. 
Where  is  he,  where  is  he? 

LIFE.     Who?     Strength? 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM.  That  handsome  youth,  with 
eyes  like  the  stars  above,  and  a  face  like  the  sea 
when  the  sun  is  rising. 

LIFE.     Ah!     You  mean  me. 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM.     You? 

LIFE.  I  change  my  expression  sometimes  to  fit 
my  mood. 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM.  You  must  be  in  a  very  ugly 
mood  now.  [He  rises  and  starts  to  hobble  toward 
her]  You  are  hideous  —  oh  — go  away  —  I  — 


96 


LIFE.  Be  not  afraid,  fair  one.  You  see,  to 
me  you  are  the  most  wonderful  creature  I  have 
ever  seen.  I  changed  my  body  into  this  [grab 
bing  his  sides]  when  I  thought  that  I  had  lost  you. 
Now  that  you  have  frightened  me,  I  cannot  turn 
back. 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM.     What  is  your  name? 

LIFE.  They  call  me  Life,  because  I  am  the  last 
of  a  great  race. 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM.  But  you,  Life,  are  merely 
the  shell  of  a  man. 

LIFE,  I  am  the  best  of  my  people  when  I  am  in 
my  other  mood.  But  tell  me,  why  came  you  here  ; 
you  are  a  strange  people? 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM.  I  lived  in  a  beautiful  land 
in  the  East,  where  the  temples  went  skyward,  and 
trees  and  flowers  were  so  many  in  number  they 
were  but  rainbows  stretched  across  the  earth. 

LIFE.  Why  came  you  here  then  among  us,  so 
poor,  so  weary  of  what  existence  we  know? 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM.  The  father  of  our  people 
told  all  the  young  families  to  find  new  homes  be 
yond  our  sea  —  our  lands  were  getting  too  small 
for  so  many.  Many  of  our  people  stopped  on  the 
islands  on  the  way,  but  our  ship  was  driven  by  a 
storm  through  a  great  canal  into  the  warm  seas. 


Cfje  I3eto  mace  97 

When  we  arrived  upon  the  shores  we  were  met  by 
large  hosts  of  birds  —  vultures,  eagles  —  that  fol 
lowed  us  to  tear  the  very  life  out  of  us.  We  were 
trying  to  get  back  to  our  people  when  we  came 
here.  [STRENGTH  has  come  up  behind  her  and 
has  been  listening] 

STRENGTH.  We  are  very  glad  that  you  lost 
your  way,  and  that  Fate  sent  you  to  us. 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM  [looking  at  one,  then  at  the 
other  in  surprise].  Fate  was  kind  to  send  me 
your  way,  even  though  it  were  a  perilous  journey. 

STRENGTH.  See  what  you  have  found  in  the 
end?  Behold  Life,  the  great  king,  and  his  lost 
world  empire ! 

LIFE  [hobbling  away  m  anger].  This  is  no 
place  for  me. 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM.  Oh,  sir,  your  land  is  terri 
ble.  We  traveled  far,  and  only  found  great 
wastes  of  land,  with  millions  of  dead  souls  that 
served  as  carrion  for  the  birds  of  prey.  From 
east  to  west,  from  north  to  south,  it  was  the  same. 

STRENGTH.  A  great  pestilence  struck  this 
wonderful  America  with  one  blow  [seeing  LIFE  as 
he  trudges  up  the  steps  into  the  cathedral],  but 
this  city  was  lost  long  before  the  great  known 
One  laid  His  hand  upon  the  country  people. 


98  ^uman  2x3i0p0 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM.  So  feared  our  great  ruler 
when  he  sent  our  fathers  with  their  families  out 
in  search  of  new  homes. 

STRENGTH.  How  can  you  share  the  want  and 
suffering  that  is  necessary  in  these  long  pilgrim 
ages  ?  You  are  but  a  lily  — 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM  [interrupting  /lira].  Thou 
sands  of  lilies  like  me  are  left  behind  in  the  rice 
fields.  Their  brown  eyes  tell  no  tales  but  famine, 
suffering. 

STRENGTH.  From  the  land  of  want  to  the  land 
of  death  you  came? 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM.  But  I  must  be  on  my  way 
before  my  father  misses  me. 

STRENGTH.  I  will  guarantee  you  a  safe  return, 
if  you  wish,  but  won't  you  remain  here  with  me  a 
little  while? 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM.     Oh,  no,  no.     I  am  afraid. 

STRENGTH.  Of  me?  [Leads  her  over  to  the 
stairway,  and  touches  a  button.  The  interior  of 
the  crypt,  which  can  be  seen  through  a  large  hole 
in  the  wall,  loosened  by  the  ravages  of  time,  is  in 
stantly  lit  up.  About,  one  can  see  costly  articles 
of  silver  and  gold  and  brass  that  STRENGTH  has 
picked  up  from  the  ruins.  Vases,  urns,  candle 
sticks,  statues,  exquisite  in  design  and  finish,  adorn 


Cfte  H3eto  Race  99 

the  wonderful  old  furniture  within]  Why  do  you 
tremble ;  do  you  fear  me  ? 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM.  Take  me  not  into  the  earth. 
I  want  the  open,  the  great,  wide  world. 

STRENGTH  [tapping  loudly  on  the  rocks],  Ly- 
cia,  Lycia! 

[An  old,  decrepit  woman  comes  out  of  the  open 
ing] 

LYCIA.     I  come,  master;  I  come. 

STRENGTH.     Who  has  been  here? 

LYCIA.     Life  has  been  here. 

STRENGTH  [seats  CHERRY  BLOSSOM  on  the  top 
of  the  steps  while  he  stands  at  the  foot].  Have  I 
not  warned  you  of  the  consequences? 

LYCIA.     What  harm  can  poor  little  Life  do? 

STRENGTH.  You  shall  see.  Everything  that 
he  touches  falls ;  if  you  wish  to  be  happy,  shun 
him  as  you  would  a  house  these  days  above  the 
ground.  Go  prepare  a  room  for  Cherry  Blossom. 
[LYCIA  goes  bach] 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM.  Tell  me,  how  came  you 
here?  Where  are  your  people? 

STRENGTH.  In  Russia  Land,  my  child;  the 
land  of  light,  free  air  and  plenty. 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM.     Why  came  you  here? 

STRENGTH.     One  day  I  was  out  for  a  lark,  test- 


ioo 


ing  my  new  air  engine,  and  two  days  brought  me 
to  these  shores.  Finding  such  a  wasted  mess  of 
men  and  men's  work,  I  became  interested,  and  re 
mained  —  oh  —  I  know  not  why. 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM  [jumping  down].  But  you 
must  help  me  now  to  get  to  my  people;  it  is  get 
ting  late. 

STRENGTH.  But  you  are  going  to  stay  with 
me,  Cherry  Blossom  ;  it  was  for  you  that  I  re 
mained  here  —  now  I  know. 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM.     How? 

STRENGTH.  I  had  a  great  premonition  that  I 
was  to  start  a  world  empire  here  upon  the  ashes 
of  the  old.  You  are  going  to  help  me. 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM  [runs  to  the  ledge].  See, 
they  are  building  a  fire  by  the  river;  they  have 
built  it  to  guide  me  to  them. 

STRENGTH  [seizing  her].  No,  no,  Cherry 
Blossom,  you  are  to  be  mine.  This  last  remnant 
of  civilization  has  to  be  wiped  out.  I  have  wires 
of  radium  running  in  all  directions,  and  with  one 
touch  the  whole  ruins  will  fall.  One  I  have 
stretched  across  the  river  to  destroy  all  boats  that 
dare  to  approach  these  shores. 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM.  But  you  will  not  destroy  my 
people? 


Cfje  I3eto  Eace  101 

STRENGTH.  Am  I  not  more  to  you  than  your 
people? 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM.  No,  no,  not  more  than  my 
people.  They  are  sacred  to  me.  We  seek  new 
homes,  new  lands  that  we  may  increase  the  earth. 
That  is  our  mission.  We  have  been  sent  out  by 
the  great  emperor  himself;  we  must  do  his  bid 
ding. 

STRENGTH.  Believe  in  me.  Help  me  to  con 
quer  my  world.  [Before  she  realizes  he  has 
wrapped  her  close  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her] 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM  [struggling  against  the  tide]. 
But  you  have  committed  a  great  crime.  In  my 
country  even  a  husband  does  not  kiss  his  wife. 

STRENGTH.  I  would  hate  to  live  in  your  land, 
then. 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM.  That  is  what  has  kept  our 
world  pure  and  free  from  disaster. 

STRENGTH.  No,  Cherry  Blossom,  not  that. 
There  are  other  things  in  your  character,  strong 
underlying  principles,  born  and  fostered  by  want 
and  suffering,  that  have  kept  the  nation's  family 
together. 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM  [looking  westward].  The 
ship  is  going  down  stream  without  me.  Give  them 
a  signal  that  I  am  coming. 


102  l^uman 


STRENGTH.     Won't  you  decide  to  give  them  up? 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM.     What,  my  people  ! 

STRENGTH.  You  have  lived  with  them  all  your 
few,  short  years,  and  all  your  life  has  been  their 
life.  You  have  known  me  but  a  short  hour. 
Have  you  not  lived  more  than  one  life  in  that 
hour?  Tell  me,  Cherry  Blossom  [holding  her 
hands'],  what  has  this  hour  been  to  you? 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM.  Oh,  I  cannot  tell  you  —  I 
only  know  that  the  world  here,  that  was  so  ter 
rible  a  land  of  waste  and  disease,  looks  beautiful 
to  me  now. 

STRENGTH  [points  to  the  out-going  ship]. 
Now  you  must  choose. 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM  [m  wonder].     Choose? 

STRENGTH.     Between  me  and  your  fair  land. 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM.  No,  I  will  not  stay  —  I 
cannot.  [Begins  to  cry  on  his  arm] 

STRENGTH.  Good-by,  then.  In  my  land  of 
great  hopes  and  plenty  I'll  remember  you  always. 
[He  embraces  her  fondly  on  the  forehead,  then 
leads  her  to  the  ledge  to  the  right  of  the  cathe 
dral] 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM  [hesitating].  But  you  will 
go  with  me  —  to  my  people  ? 

STRENGTH.     No,   Cherry   Blossom.     I'll  watch 


CJ)e  I3eto  Bace  103 

you  until  you  are  safe  on  the  boat ;  they  have 
stopped  for  they  have  felt  the  shock  of  the  ra 
dium. 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM  [in  an  imploring  tone}.  But 
you  said  that  you  wanted  me  to  help  you? 

STRENGTH.  So  I  do,  but  my  wife  must  go  with 
me,  not  to  her  people,  nor  to  mine  —  just  with 
me.  [Reaches  his  hands  to  her,  pleadingly} 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM  [climbing  back  on  the  rocks, 
looking  toward  the  boats}.  Good-by,  my  people; 
good-by,  my  cherished  land. 

STRENGTH.  You  have  decided  well,  my  fair 
one. 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM  [holding  him  by  one  hand,  as 
she  waves  the  other  in  farewell  from  the  cliff}. 
Yes,  Strength,  I  will  stay  with  you,  for  I,  too, 
must  be  a  parent  in  a  new  land.  I  must  give  to 
a  new  race  the  best  that  is  in  my  people ;  I  must 
teach  my  children  to  love  and  respect  the  far 
East,  for  much  as  she  has  been  held  down  by  tra 
dition,  much  has  she  given  to  civilization. 

STRENGTH.  The  best  that  is  in  us,  that  will  we 
give  to  the  new  race. 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM.  The  best  that  is  in  us. 
[She  holds  her  face  to  his,  as  he  leads  her  across 
the  tiles} 


104  ^uman  2x3i0p0 

STRENGTH  [his  face  and  hers  in  dark  silhouette 
against  the  light  -within  the  crypt].  Nations  will 
rise  and  fall,  as  other  worlds  have  done,  but  the 
love  for  husband  and  wife  lives  on,  and  will  live 
down  through  the  ages  and  through  all  eternity. 
[A  great  rumbling  sound  is  heard  as  CHERRY 
BLOSSOM  draws  closer  to  STRENGTH]  What  is 
it?  Are  we  in  eternity? 

STRENGTH.  Yes,  in  our  eternity.  I  have 
touched  off  the  wires ;  the  last  of  the  ruins  are 
falling.  In  the  morning  there  will  be  nothing  left 
but  a  few  dead  bodies  to  tell  that  life  was  recent 
—  the  last  of  great  lives  and  noble  aims.  To  the 
city,  the  accumulator  of  wit,  wisdom,  and  vice,  I 
give  you  back  the  ashes  of  your  glorious  work. 
Your  fathers  built  well,  but  thy  children,  oh,  thy 
children  reaped  and  forgot  to  sow  again.  Fare 
well.  [The  jailing  and  crashing  of  buildings  is 
heard] 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM.  Farewell  to  what,  my  hus 
band? 

STRENGTH.  To  the  past.  [The  little  form  of 
LIFE  is  seen  coming  out  of  the  church  and  hob 
bling  across  the  tiles] 

CHERRY  BLOSSOM.  Every  home  and  every  fam 
ily  dedicate  their  love  to  the  future.  [LIFE  has 


CJje  Jfteto  Race  105 

touched  a  wire,  stumbles  back  on  the  stage,  and 
falls  dead  at  their  feet] 

STRENGTH  [Their  forms  are  hidden  half  tJie 
time  from  the  gusts  of  wind  and  flame  that  wreak 
ravages  upon  the  city].  So  shall  we  dedicate  our 
love  to  the  future,  a  wonderful  future. 


CURTAIN 


DANNY 

A  ONE-ACT  PLAY 

"  And  all  men  kiU  tlie  thing  they  love, 

By  all  let  this  be  heard, 
Some  do  it  with  a  bitter  look, 

Some  with  a  flattering  word, 
The  coward  does  it  with  a  kiss, 
The  brave  man  with  a  sword." 


CHARACTERS 

DANNY,  a  hunchback 
ANN,  a  half-witted  girl 
Mas.  WELSH,  Danny's  mother 
JACK  WYNN,  a  neighbor 
MRS.  NOLAN,  a  neighbor 


Scene:  A  sitting  room  of  a  family  of  very 
modest  means,  but  in  no  way  poor.  To  the  left 
a  door  opening  from  the  street;  at  the  back  two 
large  windows  some  five  feet  apart,  in  which  space 
stands  an  old-fashioned  stove.  Before  each  win 
dow  is  a  rocking  chair,  where  the  members  of  the 
family  are  wont  to  sit  to  get  a  good  view  of  the 
street.  To  the  right  a  sofa,  to  the  left  of  which, 
and  halfway  between  the  front  stage  and  the  win 
dows,  is  a  table  with  chairs  at  either  side.  An 
old  ingrain  carpet  is  on  the  floor;  crayon  por 
traits  of  the  brothers  and  sisters,  as  well  as  those 
of  all  the  grandparents,  adorn  the  wall. 

Time:     Early  spring. 

MRS.  WELSH  [sewing  at  the  window  to  the  left]. 
Rouse  yourself  from  there,  lad.  You  haven't  got 
your  chores  done  as  yet. 

DANNY  [curled  up  on  the  sofa].  Wait  a  bit, 
mother.  I  don't  feel  much  fit  this  morning. 

MRS.  WELSH.     You  were  out  most  of  the  night. 

Where  do  you  go,  lad,  these  dark  nights? 

109 


no 


DANNY.  I  likes  to  talk  with  the  little  men  and 
women  in  the  trees,  mother.  They  tell  such  funny 
stories. 

MRS.  WELSH.     About  what,  Danny? 

DANNY.  How  the  spider  gets  his  silver  from 
the  stars,  and  builds  himself  a  house  more  beauti 
ful  than  the  kings. 

MRS.  WELSH.     Don't  be  silly,  Danny. 

DANNY  [with  an  attempt  to  rouse  himself. 
I'm  no  silly,  little  mother. 

MRS.  WELSH.  You  are  always  so  queer,  lad. 
You  never  play  with  other  children,  but  instead 
you  roam  through  the  brake  by  the  river,  or  the 
trees  in  the  woods,  or  by  the  rocks  in  the  quarry. 

DANNY.  Yes,  mother.  [Throws  himself  back- 
on  the  sofa,  and  draws  himself  up  into  a  heap  that 
doesn't  look  much  larger  than  the  hump  on  his 
back] 

MRS.  WELSH.     And  why? 

DANNY.  I  love  to  see  my  friends,  the  hobgob 
lins.  They  tell  me  such  queer  things,  mother; 
perhaps  that's  why  I'm  queer. 

MRS.  WELSH.  You  are  too  old  for  that  now, 
lad. 

DANNY.     Eighteen  my  last  birthday,  mother. 

MRS.  WELSH.     And  you  such  a  little  fellow. 


Dannp  111 

DANNY.  It's  the  hump  on  my  back  that  makes 
me  little.  If  God  hadn't  given  me  that,  but  in 
stead  had  made  me  a  big,  fine  fellow  so  the  girls 
would  not  run  when  they  see  me,  or  the  gamblers 
pat  my  back  to  bring  them  luck,  I'd  — 

MES.  WELSH.  You'd  what?  [Stops  sewing 
and  looks,  wondering] 

DANNY  Never  mind,  mother.  If  I  wa'n't  as 
ugly  as  a  toad,  maybe  I'd  have  a  sweetheart,  too. 

MRS.  WELSH.  What!  You  are  not  thinking 
of  the  girls  already? 

DANNY.  Yes,  mother.  I  be  a  man  now.  I 
may  not  look  it. 

MRS.  WELSH  [distressed].  A  man?  [A  knock 
on  the  door]  Who  is  that,  now?  [Opening  the 
door]  Well,  good-morning,  Mrs.  Nolan ;  come  in, 
will  you? 

MRS.  NOLAN  [in  great  excitement].  Have  you 
heard  what  the  quarrymen  found  when  they  went 
to  work  this  morning? 

MRS.  WELSH.     No,  I  have  not,  Mrs.  Nolan. 

MRS.  NOLAN.  Well,  they  found  the  murdered 
body  of  Minnie  Wynn,  they  did. 

MRS.  WELSH  [surprised].  What  are  you  tell 
ing  me,  Mrs.  Nolan.  [A  groom  is  heard  from 
DANNY  on  the  sofa] 


us  J^uman 


MRS.  NOLAN.  They  did  that,  and  she  so  good 
to  your  Danny  there. 

MRS.  WELSH.  What  do  you  think  of  that, 
Danny?  Poor  Mrs.  Wynn  has  been  murdered. 
[Not  a  sound  from  DANNY] 

MRS.  NOLAN.  They  have  been  looking  all  over 
for  her  husband,  and  they  cannot  find  him. 

DANNY  [rises  up  in  great  excitement].  What? 
[Then  falls  back  again] 

MRS.  WELSH.  You'll  have  no  one  to  bake 
you  little  cakes  with  sugar  on  any  more,  my 
lad. 

MRS.  NOLAN.     Where  was  Danny  last  night? 

MRS.  WELSH  [looking  at  DANNY  and  then  at 
MRS.  NOLAN,  her  jaw  dropping],  Danny  was  at 
home,  Mrs.  Nolan. 

MRS.  NOLAN.  Some  one  said  they  saw  him  go 
ing  through  her  gate  before  her  man  came  home 
from  work. 

MRS.  WELSH.  If  it  is  here  you  come  to  make 
trouble,  Mrs.  Nolan,  you  can  excuse  yourself  at 
once.  I'll  not  have  a  bit  of  it. 

MRS.  NOLAN.     I'm  only  asking,  Mrs.  Welsh. 

MRS.  WELSH.  But  it's  for  idle  gossip  you  are 
asking,  Mrs.  Nolan.  My  Danny  is  innocent.  Go 
[opening  ihe  door~\,  go  tell  the  whole  neighbor- 


Dannp  113 

hood  that  my  Danny  is  innocent.  [Mas.  NOLAN 
goes  out] 

DANNY  [arousing  himself].     Is  she  gone? 

MRS.  WELSH.  She  is  that,  bad  luck  to  her  evil 
tongue. 

DANNY.  Where  do  you  think  Jack  Wynn  has 
gone  ? 

MRS.  WELSH.  He  is  gone  where  they  can't  get 
him.  I  can  tell  you  that. 

DANNY  [rising  to  a  sitting  position].     Why? 

MRS.  WELSH.  Well,  if  it  is  him  that's  killed  his 
little  wife,  he  ain't  going  to  stay  around  here  to 
let  them  string  him  up  on  a  rope. 

DANNY.     Why  should  he  kill  his  little  wife? 

MRS.  WELSH.  I'll  tell  you  something,  my 
Danny  boy,  these  here  married  folks  often  have 
reasons  for  killing  one  another.  It's  often  a  bad 
business  relationship.  It's  a  wonder  more  of  them 
ain't  killed  than  are. 

DANNY.  Oh !  [wondering]  I  thought  it  was  all 
so  beautiful.  [Crouches  again  in  his  corner] 

MRS.  WELSH.  There's  more  of  your  queer 
thinking  now.  [The  door  squeaks.  MRS.  WELSH 
jumps  and  looks  in  surprise  as  she  sees  the  face  of 
SILLY  ANN  peeping  through  the  door] 

ANN.     Can  —  I  —  come  —  in  ? 


l^uman 


MRS.  WELSH  [pausing  before  she  answers]. 
Yes,  come  in,  Ann. 

ANN  [looking  about,  and  seeing  DANNY  on  the 
sofa,  she  laughs  in  her  half-witted  way].  He!  he! 

MRS.  WELSH.  Danny  isn't  feeling  well  this 
morning,  Ann. 

ANN.     He!  he! 

MRS.  WELSH.  Would  you  do  his  chores  for 
him?  I  have  got  a  nice,  big  cake  in  the  pantry 
saved  for  you. 

ANN.     He!  he! 

MRS.  WELSH.  Feed  the  pigs,  Ann,  before  you 
milk.  They  are  squealing  their  heads  off. 

ANN  [looking  at  the  sofa,  surprised]  .  He  !  he  ! 
[Slips  out] 

DANNY.     My!     But  she  makes  me  squirm. 

MRS.  WELSH.  Nothing  to  be  scared  about,  son. 
She  is  as  harmless  as  a  kitten. 

DANNY.     Well,  she  just  thinks  it. 

MRS.  WELSH.     Thinks  what  now? 

DANNY.  I  know.  [Buries  himself  deeper  in  his 
corner] 

MRS.  WELSH.  You  don't  think  [pausing]  that 
she's  heard  of  Mrs.  Wynn  getting  killed,  do  you? 
You  don't  reckon  she  thinks  —  Oh,  Danny,  if 
you  hadn't  stayed  out  so  late  last  night  ! 


Dannp  us 

DANNY.  I  was  sleeping  in  the  barn  most  of  the 
time,  mother.  It's  warm  in  the  cow's  manger,  and 
I  likes  to  snuggle  up  in  the  hay  and  think. 

MRS.  WELSH  [reassured].  Of  course  you  do; 
of  course  you  do.  I  think  I'll  run  down  to  Mrs. 
Homer's  to  see  if  they  know  any  particulars  about 
—  about  Mrs.  Wynn.  [Takes  her  shawl  from  a 
hook  behind  the  door  and  throws  it  over  her  head] 
I  won't  be  gone  long,  Danny. 

DANNY  [hearing  his  mother  close  the  door,  he 
looks  up  tenth  a  somewhat  turbulent  expression]. 
Ma,  you  are  a  fool!  [The  door  begins  to  open 
slowly;  the  squeak  startles  DANNY,  and  he  gazes 
open-mouthed  with  an  expression  of  fear  on  his 
face  until  he  sees  the  head  of  SILLY  ANN  ap 
pear] 

ANN  [coming  in  slowly,  and  looking  to  the  back 
and  the  side] .  He !  he ! 

DANNY.      Silly  Ann,  you're  a  fool,  a  damn  fool ! 

ANN  [with  her  monotonous  grin].     He!  he! 

DANNY  [his  shoulders  raised,  his  head  sunk  m 
the  hollow  of  his  chest,  his  claw-like  hands  on  the 
edge  of  the  sofa].  Don't  you  say  I  did  it,  now! 

ANN.     He!  he! 

DANNY.     You  did  it  yourself. 

ANN.     He!  he! 


116 


DANNY  [throwing  his  legs  out  from  under  him~\. 
You  know  you  are  in  love  with  Jack  W}fnn. 

ANN.     He!  he!     [Nods]     He!  he! 

DANNY.  I  saw  you  give  her  the  blow  on  the 
head. 

ANN.     He!  he! 

DANNY  [jumps  into  the  middle  of  the  room]. 
Then  you  strangled  her,  didn't  you? 

ANN.     He!  he! 

DANNY  [emphatically].     Now  didn't  you? 

ANN  [nods].     He!  he! 

DANNY.  Then  you  [covers  his  eyes  with  his 
hands],  my  God!  Then  you  cut  her  head  off. 

ANN  [pointing  to  the  blood  on  his  wrist].  He! 
he! 

DANNY  [jumping  about  the  floor  with  short 
steps,  a  weird  expression  of  excitement  on  his 
face],  I  got  that  when  I  helped  you  to  pull  her 
down  into  the  hole. 

ANN.     He  !  he  I 

DANNY.  Why  do  you  stand  there  staring  at 
me  like  an  owl? 

ANN.     He!  he! 

DANNY  [recovering  himself].  What  did  you 
do  with  the  hatchet? 

ANN.     He!  he! 


Dannp  in 

DANNY  [mocking' her] .     He!  he! 

[ANN,  grinning,  with  her  mouth  screwed  up 
to  one  side,  just  lets  out  a  shrill  note]. 

DANNY.     Didn't  you  bury  it? 

ANN  [shakes  her  head] .     He !  he ! 

DANNY  [tearing  around  the  room,  limping,  his 
two  arms  half-raised  as  if  he  had  a  tomahawk 
in  each  one;  and  with  every  step  and  pause,  ANN 
steps  and  pauses].  What  are  you  going  to  say 
when  they  take  you  to  jail? 

ANN.     He!  he! 

DANNY.  Yes ;  he !  he !  That  grin  is  driving 
me  mad.  Why  didn't  you  dig  a  hole  in  the 
ground  and  put  that  bloody  thing  in  it? 

ANN.  I  —  gave  —  it  —  to  —  Jack  —  Wynn. 
He!  he! 

DANNY  [stunned].     You? 

ANN.     He!  he! 

DANNY  [grabs  up  an  iron  off  the  stove  to  throw 
it  at  her,  when  voices  are  heard  outside.  Listen 
ing].  Now  they  have  found  you  out. 

ANN.     He!  he! 

MRS.  WELSH  [entering,  followed  by  JACK 
WYNN].  You'll  not  harm  a  hair  of  his  head,  I 
say. 

JACK  [a  strong,  giant-like  fellow  of  the  labor- 


118  Rinnan 


ing  type\.  My  poor  little  harmless  wife;  they 
killed  her! 

MRS.  WELSH.  Not  a  word  of  it  is  true,  if  the 
whole  neighborhood  is  saying  that  it  is.  Look 
at  them,  the  two  harmless  things.  [ANN  and 
DANNY  look  lank  and  dejected  in  their  innocence] 

JACK.  Danny,  I  loved  you  better  than  my  own 
boy  ;  now  to  kill  the  thing  I  loved. 

ANN.     He!  he! 

MRS.  WELSH.  Speak  up,  Danny.  Declare 
your  innocence. 

ANN.     He!  he!     [DANNY  remains  silent] 

JACK.  Danny  —  you  —  oh,  I  felt  so  safe  to 
go  to  lodge  when  you  was  there  with  her. 

MRS.  WELSH.     Ann,  my  God,  you  speak. 

DANNY.     Ann  did  it. 

ANN.     He  !  he  ! 

JACK.  You  wouldn't  do  a  thing  like  that  to 
Jack,  would  you?  I  have  been  a  brother  to  you 
all  my  life. 

ANN  [shakes  her  head].     He!  he! 

MRS.  WELSH.  Ann,  now  own  up;  we  won't 
hurt  you  if  you  tell  the  truth. 

DANNY.     You  choked  her,  didn't  you? 

ANN.     He!  he! 


Dating 119 

JACK  [his  hands  at  his  throat].  No,  no;  not 
that,  Ann ! 

ANN  [shaking  her  head].     He!  he! 

DANNY.     Ann,  you'll  swing  for  it ! 

ANN  [in  terror,  her  eyes  widening,  points  to 
DANNY]  .  No,  no, —  he  —  he  —  killed  —  Minnie. 

JACK  [with  up-raised  chair].  I'll  brain  you 
without  the  law. 

MRS.  WELSH.  No,  Jack,  you  know  Danny 
loved  Minnie  as  his  own  sister;  he  couldn't  have 
hurt  the  child. 

JACK.  But  he  killed  her,  Mrs.  Welsh.  He 
killed  the  only  thing  I  loved.  [Weeps,  sitting 
down  on  the  chair,  with  back  turned  to  the  audi 
ence,  to  hide  his  tears] 

MRS.  WELSH.  Danny  couldn't  even  kill  a  bird, 
Jack. 

DANNY  [aroused].  Yes,  mother,  I  did  kill  the 
only  thing  he  loved. 

ANN.     He !  he ! 

MRS.  WELSH.     Danny! 

DANNY.  Yes,  I  did  it  because  he  loved  the  only 
thing  that  I  loved. 

MRS.  WELSH.     But  she  was  his  wife ! 

DANNY.     I  wanted  her. 


120  Duman 


ANN.     He!  he! 

MRS.  WELSH.  Danny!  Jack,  do  you  hear 
what  he  says? 

DANNY.  Yes,  I  loved  her;  oh,  more  than  the 
soul  of  any  able-bodied  man  ever  loved.  I  loved 
her  fingers  ;  I  loved  her  eyes  ;  I  loved  her  mouth. 

JACK  [sobbing].     Oh! 

DANNY  [with  great  emphasis].  Yes,  I  loved 
her.  You  all  laugh  at  me  ;  she  laughed  at  me. 

ANN.     He!  he! 

DANNY.  You  vile  critter  —  shut  up  !  I  loved 
her  —  I  wanted  her,  but  she  wanted  [pointing  to 
JACK]  she  wanted  him. 

JACK.  Oh,  my  God  !  Give  me  forgiveness,  but 
I  [ri?£s]  must  kill  him. 

MRS.  WELSH  [runs  toward  him].  No,  no, 
Jack.  He  didn't  do  it  ;  he  is  shielding  Ann. 

ANN.     He  !  he  ! 

JACK.     Why  should  he  shield  Ann  ? 

MRS.  WELSH.     Because  she  loves  you. 

DANNY.  Because  we  love  things  that  don't  love 
us,  and  are  despised  for  it. 

JACK.  Loves  me;  oh,  Ann,  my  little  weak  sis 
ter!  [holding  out  his  hands  to  her] 

ANN  [going  to  him].     He!  he! 

JACK.     You  didn't  kill  Minnie,  did  you? 


Danng 


ANN.  He  !  he  !  [Shakes  her  head  as  he  wraps 
his  arms  about  her] 

DANNY  [m  a  rage].  Mother,  let  me  tell  you, 
and  you,  too,  Jack;  I  killed  her;  I  strangled  her; 
I  —  oh,  my  God,  what  did  I  do  ?  I  killed  the 
thing  I  loved  \ 

MRS.  WELSH.     The  thing  you  loved  ! 

DANNY.     Yes,  mother. 

ANN.     He!  he!     [JACK  tries  to  silence  her] 

DANNY.  You  thought  I  was  a  child,  a  babe 
still  in  your  arms,  but  the  pangs  of  manhood  have 
long  throbbed  in  my  body.  Girls  ran  from  me, 
women  shunned  me,  and  I  was  a  monster  to  men 
—  among  men  —  I  was  a  man  yet  deprived  of  all 
the  joys  —  their  joys. 

JACK.     But  Minnie  !     She  was  good  to  you. 

DANNY  [breaking  away  from  his  mother's 
grasp].  Yes,  that  was  just  it.  Minnie  was  good 
to  me  ;  she  baked  cakes  for  me  —  but  she  loved 
you. 

MRS.  WELSH.     Oh,  Danny  !  Danny  ! 

JACK  [with  compassion].     My  little  brother! 

DANNY.     You  all  pitied  me  ;  you  pity  me  now  ! 

ANN.     He!  he! 

MRS.  WELSH.  You  need  pity,  my  child,  if  what 
you  say  is  true  ;  but  it  isn't  true,  is  it,  my  Danny  ? 


l^uman 


JACK.  Oh,  Mrs.  Welsh,  I  fear  it  is.  These 
half-witted  children  that  we  think  are  harmless 
often  rise  up  to  break  our  hearts  when  life,  when 
God,  when  society  alone  is  to  blame. 

MRS.  WELSH.  My  Danny  is  as  harmless  as  a 
child,  Jack  Wynn,  let  me  be  a-telling  you  that. 

JACK.  And  you  say  that  after  he  has  told  you 
that  he  killed  Minnie  —  the  only  thing  I  loved. 

DANNY  [with  scorn].  The  only  thing  I  loved, 
too,  mother,  and  I  am  willing  to  die  for  it.  Life 
without  her  was  nothing  —  is  nothing  —  and 
never  — 

ANN.     He  !  he  ! 

MRS.  WELSH  [stretching  her  arms  out  to  ANN 
in  her  last  appeal].  Didn't  you  kill  Minnie? 

ANN.     He  !  he  ! 

MRS.  WELSH.     You  love  Jack,  don't  you  ? 

ANN  [nods  her  head]  .     He  !  he  ! 

MRS.  WELSH.     You  see.     She  owns  up  to  it  — 
see! 

DANNY.  Listen  to  sense,  mother.  [Falls  limp 
upon  the  sofa,  and,  pulling  up  his  sleeve,  shows 
them  his  blood-stained  arm] 

JACK  [throws  ANN  from  him  and  turns  to  the 
wall,  half  faint].  Oh,  my  little  wife,  my  little 
wife! 


Dannp  123 

DANNY.  If  you  suffer  at  the  sight  of  her  blood, 
what  do  you  think  I  suffered  when  I  saw  you  kiss 
her  night  after  night  as  you  came  home  from 
work?  If  you  scorn  the  sin  that  is  to  drench  my 
soul,  know  that  I  suffered  and  am  willing  to  suffer 
for  it,  and  it  will  never  be  half  —  no,  not  one  hun 
dredth  part  of  the  agony  that  I  have  endured  for 
months  when  I  saw  you  gather  her  into  your  arms 
at  bedtime  and  carry  her  upstairs  to  her  room.  I 
had  to  turn  out  into  the  night,  home,  and  alone. 

JACK  [fo  the  wall,  with  outstretched  arms]. 
My  God !  give  me  strength,  Thy  strength,  that  I'll 
not  take  a  life  for  a  life. 

MRS.  WELSH.     Danny,  this  will  kill  me ! 

DANNY.     It  killed  me  long  ago. 

MRS.  WELSH  [hearing  something,  she  peers  out 
of  the  window] .  Here  comes  the  sheriff  —  they 
are  coming  here.  There  are  some  men  with  him. 

DANNY  [looks  out  of  the  window-].  Yes,  they 
are  coming  —  after  me. 

JACK.     Justice!     Justice! 

DANNY  [with  contempt].  There  is  no  justice. 
Look  at  me,  then  ask  God  why  he  made  such  a 
critter  as  me? 

MRS.  WELSH.  What  can  we  do  to  save  him, 
Jack? 


I^uman 


ANN.     He!  he! 

JACK.     He  killed  the  thing  I  loved. 

DANNY.  Love  killed  her  and  me,  mother.  I'm 
no  coward  to  die  for  the  thing  I  loved.  They  can 
take  me.  [Goes  out  to  meet  them] 

MRS.  WELSH  [as  door  closes  beJiind  him,  extend 
ing  her  hands]  .  Danny,  my  boy  !  [Falls  in  a 
famt  toward  JACK,  who  catches  her] 

ANN.     He!  he! 


CURTAIN 


A     000  671  604     7 


